FRANK 
NEERIWELL'S 
LADS 


BURT • L 
STAN  DISH 


THE  LIBRARY, 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


The  monoplane  shot  onward  and  upward,  and  they  gazed  after  it  with  white, 
despairing  faces.  I  age  229. 


FRANK  MERRIWELL'S  LADS 


OR 


THE  BOYS  WHO  GOT  ANOTHER  CHANCE 


BURT  L  STANDISH 

AUTHOR  OF 

Frank  Merriwell's  School  Days,"  "  Frank  Merriwell's  Chums,' 

"Frank  Merriwell's  Foes,"  "Frank  Merriwell's 

Trip  West,"  etc. 


PHILADELPHIA 

DAVID   McKAY,   PUBLISHER 
604-8  SOUTH  WASHINGTON  SQUARE 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  Into  forrign  language*, 
including  the  Scandinavian. 


FRANK  MERRIWELL'S  LADS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DROPPED   TO   THE   SCRUB. 

Dropped  to  the  scrub ! 

Bob  Wendell,  still  dressed  in  his  football  togs,  sat 
hunched  down  in  a  chair,  his  chin  resting  on  his  hands, 
his  eyes  staring  moodily  at  the  door.  He  had  man- 
aged to  hold  himself  together  as  long  as  there  was  any 
one  to  see  him.  But,  now  that  he  was  shut  in  his  own 
room,  the  rage  and  humiliation  which  had  filled  him 
almost  to  overflowing  for  the  past  two  hours  found  in- 
stant expression. 

Dropped  to  the  scrub! 

After  four  weeks  of  strenuous  effort,  of  rigid  train- 
ing and  single-minded  endeavor,  he  had,  in  a  single 
moment,  been  summarily  turned  down;  his  place  on 
the  eleven  had  been  given  to  Leavenworth,  one  of  the 
substitutes,  and  a  fellow  whom  he  had  always  been 
accustomed  rather  to  look  down  on  from  the  height 
of  his  seemingly  unassailable  superiority. 

Jim  Phillips,  the  captain,  had  given  no  real  reason. 
There  had  been  some  vague  talk  about  Wendell's  in- 
deasiveness  of  character  and  lack  of  initiative,  which 
made  him  more  or  less  slow  in  getting  under  way. 
But  Bob  knew  that  was  all  tommyrot. 

"Of  course,"  Phillips  also  told  him,  "you  under- 
stand that  it  is  only  a  trial.  Leavenworth  may  not 


fl  Dropped  to  the  Scrub. 

make  good  at  right  guard.  But  I  want  to  try  him  out 
and  see  if  he  doesn't  develop  a  little  more  speed  than 
you  have,  Bob.  It's  quite  possible  he  may  not  pan  out 
at  all,  and  in  that  case  you'll  be  back  in  a  few  days. 
I  hate  to  do  it,  old  fellow,  but  I've  got  to  think  of  the 
team  first  and  do  my  best  to  strengthen  it  regardless 
of  any  personal  feelings.  But  then,  you  understand 
that,  of  course." 

Wendell  had  forced  a  careless  smile  and  assured  him 
that  he  did  understand  perfectly.  Not  for  the  world 
would  he  have  shown  any  of  the  fellows  how  hard  hit 
he  was  at  the  blow  which  had  come  so  unexpectedly. 
He  would  take  his  medicine  without  whimpering,  if 
only  to  disappoint  the  fellows  who  would  have  been  far 
too  glad  to  see  him  shamed  and  humiliated. 

Yes,  he  understood — perfectly.  He  was  a  fool  not 
to  have  expected  it  and  been  on  the  lookout  for  a  move 
of  this  sort.  He  might  have  known  that  it  would 
come  sooner  or  later.  Phillips  had  never  liked  him, 
even  at  the  start,  and  the  feud  between  himself  and 
Don  Shasta,  the  quarter  back,  one  of  the  captain's 
closest  friends,  rapidly  widened  the  breach. 

"The  little  runt  leads  him  around  by  the  nose,"  Wen- 
dell muttered,  "and  gets  him  to  do  anything  he  wants. 
He's  the  one  I've  got  to  blame  for  this.  I'll  bet  he's 
been  working  to  get  me  out  from  the  very  beginning." 

Like  many  other  fellows,  Bob  Wendell  was  lacking 
in  a  sense  of  proportion. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  at  any  time  to  survey 
things  from  any  but  his  own  point  of  view.  And,  when 
in  a  rage,  as  he  was  at  the  present  moment,  his  sense 
of  justice  reached  almost  the  vanishing  point. 


Dropped  to  the  Scrub.  7 

He  hated  Don  Shasta  intensely,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  the  brainy,  rather  quick-tempered  quarter  back 
had  never  cared  particularly  for  him,  nor  been  at  the 
least  pains  to  hide  that  fact. 

Shasta  was,  perhaps,  the  most  popular,  best  liked 
boy  at  Farnham  Hall,  though  no  one  could  explain  ex- 
actly why.  He  was  impulsive,  inconsequent,  and  hot- 
tempered.  He  could,  and  often  did,  ruffle  a  fellow  to 
the  point  of  incoherent  fury,  by  a  few  pithy,  well- 
chosen  remarks.  He  was  frank  and  open  to  an  unusual 
— almost  an  uncomfortable — degree,  for  he  never 
made  false  pretenses  of  any  sort.  If  a  fellow  bored 
him,  or  did  not  appeal  to  him,  he  shunned  that  fellow 
without  hesitation.  Life  was  too  short,  he  said,  to 
waste  time  with  persons  one  did  not  care  for  when 
there  were  always  plenty  of  nice  chaps  around. 

That  there  were  plenty  around  him  was  due  to  an 
elusive  something  Shasta  possessed  which  made  almost 
everybody  like  him.  If  he  could  rouse  a  boy  to  anger 
in  record  time,  he  could  also  soothe  him  into  perfect 
amiability  in  less.  A  smile,  a  joking  word  or  two,  a 
friendly  clap  on  the  back,  and  it  was  done. 

Wendell  had  been  one  of  those  who  bored  Shasta, 
and  the  fact  had  been  made  plain  without  delay. 

Unfortunately,  instead  of  resigning  himself  quietly 
to  the  inevitable  and  seeking  his  friends  elsewhere, 
Wendell  made  the  mistake  of  persisting.  He  con- 
sidered the  circle  which  revolved  about  Shasta  to  be 
the  most  desirable  coterie  in  school.  He  wanted  to 
be  one  of  them,  and  so  he  kept  on  trying  until  he 
was  thrown  down  so  hard  by  the  expert  quarter  back 


8  Dropped  to  the  Scrub. 

that  intense  hatred  of  the  mercurial  youth  filled  Wen- 
dell from  that  moment. 

t     Wendell  reasoned  with  the  masterly  simplicity  of  the 
heavy-minded. 

If  he  hated  Shasta,  it  followed  without  question 
that  the  quarter  back  detested  him.  He  really  believed 
it,  not  being  able  to  understand  the  volatile  chap's  atti- 
tude of  absolute  indifference. 

Wendell  should  have  known  better,  however,  than  to 
credit  Jim  Phillips  with  ulterior  motives  in  dropping 
him  to  the  scrub.  Shasta  and  Phillips  were  great 
chums,  to  be  sure;  but  the  captain  of  the  team  was  not 
at  all  the  sort  to  allow  friendship  to  interfere  with,  or 
influence,  his  judgment. 

Perhaps,  had  he  not  been  in  such  a  rage,  Wendell 
would  have  comprehended  this,  and  perhaps  not.  At 
all  events,  he  was  mad  through  and  through  at  what 
he  considered  the  injustice  of  it  all. 

"I  hate  the  whole  bunch  of  'em,"  he  muttered 
fiercely,  as  he  got  up  and  began  stalking  back  and  forth 
across  the  room.  "They're  a  lot  of  low-down  muckers. 
If  I  don't  pay  'em  up,  I'm  a  dub.  Phillips  and  Shasta 
are  the  worst,  though,  and  I'll  make  them  good  and 
sorry  they  ever  did  this." 

Not  being  possessed  of  a  very  fertile  brain,  how- 
ever, an  appropriate  and  satisfying  means  of  revenge 
did  not  occur  to  him. 

He  could  not  very  well  pick  a  quarrel  with  Shasta, 
for  the  slight  chap  was  a  wonder  with  his  fists,  and 
the  result  would  probably  only  further  humiliate  the 
deposed  guard.  Nothing  else  came  into  his  mind, 


Dropped  to  the  Scrub.  9 

and  he  gave  up  puzzling  over  it  for  the  moment  to  con- 
sider another  question  which  was  troubling  him. 

He  did  not  know  whether  to  stay  on  the  scrub  or 
not. 

His  first  impulse  had  been  contemptuously  to  refuse 
to  make  a  work  horse  of  himself  so  that  the  favored 
few  might  receive  the  requisite  amount  of  practice.  It 
had  been  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  tell  Phillips  he 
could  find  somebody  else  for  that  role,  but  somehow  he 
refrained. 

If  he  did  that,  he  would  lose  every  chance  of  taking 
part  in  any  of  the  games.  A  substitute  can  always 
hope,  and  Wendell  cared  too  much  for  the  game  to  put 
himself  deliberately  in  that  position. 

It  was  going  to  be  almost  intolerable,  however,  to 
get  through  those  first  few  days.  He  could  picture  the 
suppressed  grins  and  overt  sneers  with  which  his  falling 
backward  would  be  received  by  certain  fellows  on  both 
teams  who  were  his  enemies.  No  doubt  at  this  very 
moment  they  were  gathered  downstairs,  or  congregated 
around  the  showers,  talking  it  over. 

Wendell  was  not  abnormally  thin-skinned;  but, 
somehow,  he  felt  an  overwhelming  fear  of  that  first  ap- 
pearance on  the  field  in  his  new  capacity. 

"I  wish  I  could  get  away  from  it  all  for  a  bit,"  he 
thought,  as  he  ceased  his  restless  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room  and  stood  by  the  table.  "I  wish  there  was 
somewhere  I  could  go  so  I  wouldn't  have  to  see  any- 
body." 

A  moment  later,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  unspoken 
wish,  his  eyes  fell  for  the  first  time  upon  a  letter  lying 


io  Dropped  to  the  Scrub. 

half  under  a  magazine.  It  had  come  in  the  noon  mail, 
and  some  one  must  have  brought  it  up  to  his  room. 

"From  Clarence !"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  as  he  picked 
it  up.  "Wonder  what  he's  writing  about." 

Ripping  the  envelope  impatiently,  Wendell  twitched 
out  the  inclosure  and  read  it  swiftly.  As  his  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  sprawling  lines,  they  brightened  and  he  fin- 
ished with  an  exclamation  of  pleasure. 

"By  Jove !"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "He  wants  me  to 
come  over  to  Haddon  for  Sunday.  Say,  that  would  be 
all  to  the  good,  and  I'd  get  away  from  seeing  those 
dopes  around  here  for  a  bit.  I  wonder  if  they'll  let  me 

gar 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   RESPITE. 

Clarence  Fellows  was  a  student  at  Haddon  Prepara- 
tory School,  which  was  situated  some  eighteen  miles 
from  Bloomfield.  He  was  a  cousin  of  Bob  Wendell's, 
and  the  two  had  always  gotten  along  well  enough  to- 
gether, though  they  had  never  been  very  close  friends. 

The  invitation  to  spend  the  coming  Sunday  with 
him,  though  it  might  not  ordinarily  have  appealed 
greatly  to  Wendell,  was  exactly  the  thing  he  had  been 
looking  for. 

To-day  was  Friday.  If  he  could  only  obtain  per- 
mission to  make  the  brief  visit,  He  would  leave  about 
noon  the  next  day,  returning  Monday  morning.  In 
this  manner  he  would  see  none  of  the  fellows  for  two 
days,  and  by  Monday  afternoon  the  matter  of  his 
humiliation  would  be  an  old  story. 

He  could  scarcely  wait  until  supper  was  finished  to 
hurry  over  to  Frank  Merriwell's  house  and  make  the 
request  for  leave  of  absence. 

Merry  hesitated  at  first,  for  it  was  not  his  policy 
to  let  the  boys  make  visits  of  this  sort  during  the  school 
year.  He  had  been  on  the  field  that  afternoon,  how- 
ever, and  witnessed  Wendell's  reduction  to  the  scrub. 
Having  a  pretty  good  knowledge  of  human  nature,  he 
understood  what  an  intense  disappointment  it  must  be 
to  the  lad,  and  knew  intuitively  that  things  would  be 
easier  all  around  if  the  unlucky  fellow  were  out  of 
the  way  a  day  or  so. 


12  A  Respite. 

"I  have  no  objection,  Wendell,"  he  said,  at  last,  "pro- 
vided you  get  Phillips'  permission  to  cut  practice  to- 
morrow. I  fancy  he'll  let  you  off  for  that  single  after- 
noon." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  Wendell  returned  gratefully. 
"I'm  very  anxious  to  see  my  cousin.  I  don't  think 
there'll .  be  any  difficulty  in  filling  my  place  on  the 
scrub." 

Frank  smiled  a  little,  quite  ignoring  the  bitterness 
in  the  fellow's  voice. 

"Probably  there  won't,  for  a  day,  anyway,"  he  said. 
"Be  sure  you  take  that  first  train  back  Monday  morn- 
ing, though." 

Wendell  promised  readily  and  hastened  off  to  find 
Phillips  and  get  the  necessary  permission.  Then  he 
sent  a  wire  to  his  cousin  to  meet  him  at  the  station. 

That  done,  he  felt  considerably  better,  though  the 
sight  of  Shasta  and  one  or  two  other  members  of  the 
team,  laughing  and  joking  together  in  the  hall,  fanned 
the  flame  of  his  anger  to  a  white  heat. 

They  were  talking  over  his  downfall,  of  course,  and 
making  merry  about  it.  He  was  a  very  self -centered 
young  man,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  any  one 
else  could  fail  to  view  the  matter  in  as  important  a  light 
as  he  did. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  as  he  passed  the  group,  head 
high  and  face  averted.  "I'll  get  even  with  you  yet,  you 
little  runt.  I'll  make  you  sweat  blood." 

It  was  with  intense  relief  that  he  stepped  aboard  the 
twelve-forty  train  next  day. 

For  almost  forty-eight  hours  he  would  not  lay  eyes 
upon  a  single  inmate  of  Farnham  Hall.  There  would 


A  Respite.  13 

be  absolutely  nothing  to  remind  him  of  the  unpleasant 
event  which  made  him  rage  whenever  he  thought  of 
it.  He  would  be  in  a  different  place,  with  an  entirely 
new  lot  of  fellows.  As  he  took  his  seat  and  opened 
the  magazine  he  had  bought,  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
enjoy  himself  to  the  utmost,  leaving  the  question  of 
getting  even  until  after  his  return. 

Clarence  Fellows,  short,  stocky,  and  sandy-haired, 
was  on  the  platform  when  the  train  pulled  in.  As  Wen- 
dell alighted,  he  rushed  forward  and  grabbed  his  hand. 

"Well,  you  old  slob,  how  are  you?"  he  said,  grin- 
ning. "Didn't  think  they'd  let  you  come,  till  I  got  your 
wire." 

"Neither  did  I,"  Wendell  confessed.  "Mr.  Merri- 
well  doesn't  usually.  But  I  managed  to  work  it." 

Fellows  winked  slyly. 

"Pull,  eh?"  he  suggested. 

"Sure,"  returned  the  Farnham  Hall  boy  readily.  "He 
thinks  everything  of  me.  I'm  the  original  prize  pack- 
age in  Bloomfield,  let  me  tell  you." 

"I  believe  you,"  scoffed  Fellows.  "Well,  let's  get  on. 
My  ninety-horse  power  Reindeer  is  out  of  commission 
just  now,  so  we'll  have  to  hoof  it.  Good  for  you, 
though.  It's  only  two  miles." 

Having  only  a  small  bag,  Wendell  was  not  averse 
to  the  walk.  The  cousins  left  the  station  and  set  out 
along  the  main  street  of  the  little  village. 

"Anything  special  doing  this  Sunday?"  Wendell  in- 
quired presently. 

Fellows  laughed. 

"Not  a  darned  thing,"  he  chuckled.    "I  just  wanted 


14  A  Respite. 

to  see  your  ugly  mug  before  we  smash  it  all  up  on  the 
gridiron  next  Saturday." 

"The  deuce  you  will !"  said  the  Farnham  Hall  man, 
forgetting  for  an  instant  his  grievance.  "We're  going 
to  put  it  all  over  you  dopes." 

Then  he  remembered,  and  scowled.  He  was  not 
going  to  play  in  the  forthcoming  game,  and  it  did  not 
matter  much  to  him  who  won.  It  would  serve  the 
stuck-up  bunch  right  if  they  were  licked  out  of  their 
boots. 

Fellows  apparently  did  not  notice  the  frown. 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  he  admonished.  "We've 
got  a  dandy  little  team  this  year,  and  a  corking  fine  cap- 
tain. By  the  way,  how  the  mischief  did  you  get  off 
from  practice  to-day?  I  was  wondering  about  that 
before  and  forgot  to  ask  you." 

Wendell  smiled  bitterly. 

"That  was  easy,"  he  returned  shortly. 

"I  don't  see  hgw  it  was,"  Fellows  persisted.  "Why, 
Con  Phelps,  our  captain,  would  never  think  of  letting 
a  chap  off  practice." 

"One  of  the  regular  team,  perhaps,"  Wendell  said 
bitterly.  "I  don't  guess  he's  so  mighty  particular  about 
the  scrub,  though." 

Fellows  whirled  around,  his  eyes  wide. 

"Scrub?"  he  repeated  incredulously. 

The  Farnham  Hall  lad  nodded  slowly.  His  expres- 
sion was  not  a  pleasant  one. 

"Exactly,"  he  returned,  with  a  hard  smile.  "I  was 
dropped  to  the  scrub  yesterday." 

Fellows  gave  a  long  whistle  of  astonishment. 

"Well,  well!"  he  commented.     "That's  the  biggest 


A  Respite.  15 

surprise  I've  had  in  a  long  while.  What  in  time  was 
the  reason  for  that?" 

Wendell's  lips  curled. 

"I  didn't  happen  to  be  a  friend  of  the  quarter  back, 
Don  Shasta,"  he  said  significantly.  "He  and  Phillips 
are  great  pals,  you  know." 

The  Haddon  chap  nodded  understandingly. 

"So  that's  how  things  are  run,  is  it?"  he  said,  with 
pursed-up  lips.  "Judas  Priest!  that's  hard  lines.  I 
should  think  you'd  want  to  get  after  this  Shasta  and 
give  him  what's  coming  to  him." 

Clarence's  tone  was  not  altogether  one  of  regret. 
Though  he  seemed  sorry  for  Wendell,  there  was  a 
faint  undercurrent  of  something  like  satisfaction  in 
his  voice.  His  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  his  cousin  in 
a  thoughtful,  half  appraising,  almost  absent  sort  of 
way,  as  if  he  were  turning  over  something  in  his  mind 
which  was  intimately  connected  with  the  chap  from 
Bloomfield. 

"Get  after  him !"  the  latter  repeated  sharply.  "What 
do  you  take  me  for,  anyhow?  Did  you  think  I  was 
going  to  sit  still  and  not  do  a  blamed  thing  ?  Trouble 
is,  I  can't  think  up  a  way  to  get  even." 

Fellows  hesitated  a  minute. 

"Can't  you  get  him  into  a  scrap  and  smash  the  face 
off  him?"  he  suggested  at  length. 

Wendell  shook  his  head. 

"Nix  on  that !"  he  said  decidedly.  "He's  about  the 
best  boxer  in  the  school,  and  I  never  took  a  lesson. 
The  shoe  would  be  on  the  other  foot  for  fair." 

"Hum — yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Fellows  agreed  abswitly. 


1 6  A  Respite. 

"That  makes  it  bad.  How  about  Phillips  ?  He  a  scrap- 
per, too?" 

"More  or  less.  No,  it's  got  to  be  something  else. 
I  wish  I  could  think  of  a  way  that  would  hit  the  whole 
crowd  at  once.  I'm  sore  on  that  bunch  of  swelled 
heads." 

Fellows'  lips  parted,  and  he  seemed  about  to  say 
something.  Before  the  words  came,  however,  he 
changed  his  mind,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  silence. 

"No  chance  at  all  of  your  getting  back  onto  the 
team?"  he  asked  presently. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Wendell  replied  scornfully.  "I 
got  the  old  song-and-dance  about  it's  being  just  a  try- 
out,  but  you  know  well  enough  what  that  means." 

Fellows  nodded. 

"Hot  air,"  he  commented  succinctly,  bending  down 
to  pluck  a  long  piece  of  grass  from  the  roadside. 

He  chewed  meditatively  on  this  for  some  little  time 
before  he  remarked,  without  glancing  at  his  com- 
panion : 

"Only  one  way  I  see  that  you  can  get  even  with  the 
jvhole  push  at  once." 

"What's  that?"  Wendell  asked  eagerly. 

"Fix  it  so  they  won't  win  the  game  next  Saturday," 
Fellows  explained  tersely. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE     TEMPTER. 

For  an  instant  there  was  dead  silence.  Then  both 
boys  glanced  swiftly  at  each  other. 

"You  mean — signals?"  Wendell  asked,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Sure,"  nodded  Fellows. 

His  companion  looked  away,  and  a  slow  flush  be- 
gan to  creep  up  into  his  face. 

"I — thought  of  that,"  he  acknowledged.  "I — I  don't 
like  the  idea,  though." 

"Why  not?" 

The  Farnham  Hall  chap  frowned. 

"Oh,  you  know  why,"  he  replied  impatiently.  "It's  a 
dirty  trick.  It's  working  against  the  school.  Nobody 
but  a  mucker  would  do  that." 

Fellows  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Don't  see  it,"  he  returned.  "What  kind  of  a  trick 
do  you  call  it  to  throw  you  off  the  team  the  way  they've 
done?  That's  about  as  rotten  a  thing  as  I've  heard  of 
in  a  long  time.  They  don't  deserve  to  win  the  game." 

"Still,"  Wendell  objected,  "that  doesn't  really  give 
me  any  license  to  play  the  traitor." 

Fellows  sniffed. 

"Tbmmyrot!  You'd  be  only  paying  them  back  in 
their  own  coin.  It  would  pay  'em  good,  too.  They're 
cocksure  of  winning,  and  they'd  be  the  sorest  bunch 
you  ever  saw  if  things  went  against  them.  It's  the 
only  way  you  can  get  even  with  them  all  at  once,  and 


l8  The  Tempter. 

it  strikes  me  you  ought  to  be  obliged  to  little  Willy  for 
thinking  of  it." 

But  Wendell  looked  anything  but  obliged.  For  some 
time  he  strode  along  biting  his  lips  and  scowling.  Out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  Fellows  watched  him  keenly, 
trying  to  fathom  what  was  going  on  in  his  mind. 

"It's  kiddish  of  you  to  feel  that  way,"  he  said  at 
length.  "You've  been  thrown  off  the  team  unfairly, 
and  you  don't  owe  them  a  thing.  Strikes  me  as  a  cork- 
ing chance  to  pay  the  whole  crowd  up,  and  I  don't  see 
why  you  hesitate.  I'm  sure  I'd  jump  at  it." 

"Think  if  it  was  found  out,  though,"  Wendell  ob- 
jected. 

Fellows  laughed. 

"You're  bughouse !"  he  exclaimed.  "How  the  mis- 
chief would  it  be  found  out?  Suppose  you  hand  over 
the  signals  to  me,  how  are  they  going  to  get  wise  that 
•we  have  them?  They'll  think  we're  a  mighty  clever 
bunch,  that's  all.  In  the  rush  and  hurry  of  a  game, 
there  isn't  a  man  living  that  can  tell  for  certain  that 
the  other  team  knows  his  signals." 

"It  might  leak  out  through  some  of  you  fellows,"  the 
Farnham  Hall  chap  protested. 

"I'll  look  out  for  that,"  his  cousin  returned  briskly. 
"I'll  guarantee  that  not  one  of  our  boys'll  blab.  So 
don't  you  worry  your  nut  about  that." 

He  stopped  abruptly  as  they  came  out  of  a  bit  of 
woods  and  saw  before  them  the  athletic  field  of  Had- 
don  School.  There  were  already  a  number  of  boys 
about,  a  few  in  football  togs  passing  a  ball  in  a  desul- 
tory manner.  But  the  majority  were  simply  strolling 


The  Tempter.  19 

about  or  watching  the  tennis  players  on  the  courts  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  gridiron. 

On  a  little  rise  some  distance  beyond  the  field,  stood 
the  buildings.  They  were  of  wood,  painted  white  and 
arranged  in  an  irregular  rectangle.  The  whole  estab- 
lishment was  decidedly  smaller  than  Farnham  Hall,  but 
for  all  that  it  looked  very  homelike  and  comfortable. 

"Well?"  Fellows  questioned,  his  eyes  fixed  intently 
on  his  companion's  face. 

Wendell  squirmed  uncomfortably. 

"I'll — think  it  over,"  he  returned  slowly.  "You  don't 
have  to  know  right  away?" 

"Oh,  no.    But  the  sooner  you  decide  the  better." 

"Well,  I'll  decide  one  way  or  the  other  before  I 
leave,"  Wendell  said,  with  an  air  of  relief  at  being 
able  to  put  off  the  vexing  question. 

"There's  really  only  one  way  to  decide,"  Fellows  re- 
minded him.  Then  he  started  forward  briskly.  "Well, 
come  ahead  and  meet  the  boys.  I  want  you  to  know 
Con  Phelps  particularly.  He's  a  dandy!" 

"Is  he  on  the  field?"  Wendell  inquired  interestedly, 
his  eyes  roving  swiftly  over  the  more  or  less  familiar 
scene. 

"Don't  see  him,  but  he'll  be  along  soon.  Practice 
is  due  to  start  at  three  sharp.  Sorry  I  can't  ask  you 
to  watch  it,  but  that  would  hardly  do." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  the  Farnham  Hall  chap  agreed 
hastily.  "Do  you  have  to  stay?" 

Fellows  grinned. 

"They'll  find  it  hard  to  get  along  without  my  mana- 
gerial advice,  of  course,"  he  chuckled.  "Seeing  as  I 
have  a  guest,  though,  I'll  try  and  wrench  myself  away 


20  The  Tempter. 

this  once.  Come  ahead.  There's  Con  just  showing 
up." 

He  led  the  way  toward  a  group  of  fellows  in  foot- 
ball togs,  who  had  just  appeared  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  field.  In  a  few  moments  Wendell  was  shaking 
hands  with  a  number  of  boys,  getting  their  names  and 
faces  hopelessly  twisted. 

He  had  no  difficulty,  however,  in  remembering  the 
captain  of  the  team. 

For  Con  Phelps  was  a  chap  whom  one  would  have 
noticed  almost  anywhere.  Tall  and  well  built,  with  a 
thick  crop  of  curly  brown  hair,  the  kink  of  which 
was  an  abomination  to  him,  he  looked  at  Wendell  with 
a  pair  of  level  brown  eyes  and  gripped  his  fingers 
with  a  heartiness  which  made  the  Farnham  Hall  boy 
take  to  him  at  once. 

"Glad  to  know  you,"  he  said  crisply.  "Clarence  said 
you  were  coming  over.  Sorry  I  can't  stop  now,  but 
we're  a  bit  late,  and  I  want  to  commence  practice.  Wish 
I  could  ask  you  to  watch  it,  though  I  don't  suppose  it 
would  be  very  interesting  to  you.  But,  of  course,  you 
understand ' ' 

"Naturally,"  Wendell  interrupted,  with  a  smile. 
"That  would  be  hardly  in  order,  would  it?" 

"Not  quite,"  laughed  Phelps,  "seeing  as  we'll  be  up 
against  each  other  in  just  a  week.  Well,  by-by  for  a 
while.  I'll  see  you  a  little  later." 

He  hustled  off,  followed  by  the  other  members  of 
the  teams,  and  Wendell  and  his  companion  turned 
slowly  toward  the  school. 

"He  is  a  good  sort,  isn't  he?"  Wendell  commented, 


The  Tempter.  21 

his  eyes  roaming  over  the  undulating  turf  and  coming 
to  rest  on  the  group  of  white  buildings. 

"Best  ever,"  Fellows  agreed  promptly.  "You'd 
never  think,  to  look  at  him,  that  his  family  is  poor  as 
poverty,  would  you?" 

Wendell  looked  interested. 

"Really?"  he  questioned.  "Why,  I  thought  Had- 
don  School  was  a  rather  expensive  one,  as  they  go." 

"So  it  is,"  Fellows  returned.  "But  Con's  managed 
to  keep  his  head  above  water  by  working  like  a  steer 
all  summtr  and  doing  all  kinds  of  odd  jobs  on  the  side 
during  the  year.  Mr.  Olmstead,  our  head  master,  is 
interested  in  him,  too,  and  helps  him  along.  You  see, 
he's  dead  set  on  going  to  Yale.  For  that  reason  he 
wants  a  good  prep-school  training.  He's  got  the  right 
idea,  of  course.  A  fellow  can  enter  any  big  college  by 
boning  away  by  himself  and  passing  the  exams,  but 
he  never  really  gets  anywhere  once  he's  in.  Most  of 
the  fellows  worth  knowing  come  from  prep  school,  and 
if  you  don't  start  in  with  one  bunch  or  another,  you're 
likely  as  not  to  be  left  out  of  things  altogether." 

Wendell  nodded. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I've  been  told,"  he  agreed. 
"There's  such  a  whopping  number  in  your  class  that, 
if  you  don't  get  a  start  by  being  chummy  with  some 
nice  crowd  in  the  beginning,  you'll  be  shoved  off  by 
yourself,  like  as  not.  But,  if  he's  so  rotten  poor,  how's 
he  expect  to  enter  Yale?" 

Fellows  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You've  got  me,"  he  returned.  "He's  a  determined 
rooster,  and  I  don't  think  there's  a  doubt  of  his  enter- 
ing if  he'd  be  content  to  go  through  the  year  looking 


22  The  Tempter. 

after  furnaces,  shoveling  snow,  and  all  that.  He  isn't 
that  kind,  though.  He  wants  to  go  in  for  athletics 
and  do  everything  that  anybody  else  does.  It  isn't 
that  he's  afraid  of  work.  He's  shown  his  grit  before 
now.  He  simply  wants  to  get  everything  out  of  col- 
lege life  there  is  to  be  had,  and  just  how  he's  going 
to  manage  it,  I  don't  know." 

"Can't  he  tutor?"  Wendell  suggested. 

"Hardly.  He's  not  much  of  a  star  in  that  line.  I 
suppose  it'll  come  out  somehow,  though.  I  sure  hope 
it  does,  for  he's  one  of  the  straightest,  most  decent 
chaps  I  ever  knew.  If  he  could  only  enter  Yale  with- 
out being  hampered,  I'll  bet  he'd  be  the  most  popular 
fellow  in  his  class." 

Wendell  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  His  face 
was  clouded,  and  there  was  a  deep  wrinkle  between  his 
eyes.  Somehow,  the  thought  of  Con  Phelps  made  him 
feel  mean  and  small.  He  did  not  believe  that  a  chap 
like  that  would  ever  consider  for  an  instant  the  be- 
traying of  his  own  school  team  to  a  rival. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE     DECISION. 

Fellows  seemed  to  have  a  shrewd  idea  of  what  was 
passing  in  his  companion's  mind,  for  he  made  haste  to 
interrupt  Wendell's  train  of  thought. 

"Well,  let's  not  stay  mooning  here,"  he  said  briskly. 
"You'd  better  take  a  look  over  the  school,  and  leave 
your  bag  in  my  room.  Then  we  might  have  a  set  or 
two  of  tennis.  I  can  scare  up  a  racket  and  some  shoes." 

Wendell  roused  himself  with  a  slight  start,  and 
acquiesced  readily. 

Anything  was  better  than  bothering  his  head  and 
depressing  his  spirits  over  a  matter  which  would  not 
have  to  be  decided  for  another  whole  day,  at  least. 

Under  his  cousin's  guidance,  he  inspected  the  school 
and  was  much  pleased  with  it,  though  inwardly  he  de- 
cided that  Farnham  Hall  was  preferable. 

Haddon  was  comfortable  enough  and  rather  pictur- 
esque, but  it  had  been  built  by  degrees  and  lacked 
many  of  the  conveniences  of  the  larger  school,  besides 
being  far  from  as  well  equipped. 

By  dint  of  raiding  the  room  of  one  of  his  friends, 
who  happened  to  be  about  Wendell's  size  and  build, 
Fellows  secured  a  pair  of  flannels  and  some  tennis 
shoes.  From  another  room  the  racket  was  forthcom- 
ing. Thus  equipped,  they  sought  the  tennis  courts, 
where  they  were  able  to  play  two  sets  before  football 
practice  was  over  and  the  crowd  started  back  to  the 


24  The  Decision. 

gymnasium  where  the  showers,  locker  room,  and  the 
like  were  situated. 

As  the  two  cousins  left  the  courts  to  join  the  others, 
Wendell  suddenly  bethought  him  of  something  he  had 
meant  to  say. 

"By  the  way,  Clarence,"  he  remarked,  in  some  em- 
barrassment, "I  don't  suppose  it's  necessary  to  say 
anything  about  my  having  been  dropped  from  the 
team." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Fellows  returned  promptly.  "I 
hadn't  intended  to.  Considering  everything,  it'll  be 
much  better  to  let  the  fellows  here  think  that  you're 
still  on  it.  If  you  decide  about  that — er — matter  the 
way  you  ought  to,  they  won't  be  nearly  so  quick  to 
guess  where  my  information  has  come  from,  as  they 
would  if  they  knew  you'd  been  thrown  down  only  yes- 
terday." 

Bob  frowned. 

"I  don't  see  how  they  can  fail  to  guess,  anyhow,"  he 
protested,  "considering  that  I'm  your  cousin  and  visit- 
ing here,  and  all  the  rest.  A  fool  could  put  two  and 
two  together  in  a  case  like  this." 

Fellows  winked  significantly  at  him. 

"Don't  you  worry,  Bob,"  he  said  soothingly.  "Can't 
you  trust  your  Uncle  Dudley  to  frame  up  a  good  story  ? 
I'm  pretty  clever  at  that  sort  of  thing,  if  I  do  say  it 
myself.  I'll  bet  I  can  work  it  so  that  not  a  man  on 
the  team  will  really  know." 

That  his  cousin  had  always  been  more  or  less  adept 
at  deception  was  quite  true,  and  Wendell  took  some 
comfort  in  the  fact.  His  earliest  recollection  of  Fel- 


The  Decision.  25 

lows  was  of  a  boy  with  an  almost  uncanny  ability  of 
evading  responsibility. 

When  the  two  had  spent  their  summers  on  a  grand- 
father's farm,  it  was  Clarence  who  planned,  and  often 
helped  to  execute,  various  pranks  and  forbidden  amuse- 
ments, but  never  Clarence  who  was  found  out  and  pun- 
ished. Usually  that  role  had  been  reserved  for  Bob, 
and  more  than  one  fight  had  resulted. 

In  those  days  Wendell  had  hated  his  cousin  and 
detested  the  underhand  methods  which  now  he  remem- 
bered with  more  or  less  relief,  as  he  felt  that  Clarence's 
agile  brain  could,  indeed,  be  depended  on  to  make  up  a 
plausible  story. 

As  they  joined  the  crowd  in  the  gymnasium,  Wendell 
made  a  strenuous  effort  to  forget  the  matter  which 
was  worrying  him,  and  was  presently  taking  part  in 
the  talk  and  laughter  and  joshing,  as  well  as  any 
stranger  could. 

He  found  the  fellows  a  very  decent  lot,  but  somehow 
Conant  Phelps  impressed  him  more  favorably  than  any 
of  the  others.  There  was  a  certain  honest  directness 
about  him  which,  together  with  the  faculty  of  making 
a  stranger  feel  as  though  he  were  one  of  the  crowd, 
pleased  Wendell  immensely. 

He  saw  at  once  just  what  Fellows  meant  when  he 
said  that  the  chap  would  be  popular  at  Yale.  There 
was  a  breezy  freshness  in  everything  he  did.  When 
he  was  discussing  any  subject,  he  had  a  way  of  making 
it  seem  as  if  he  were  vitally  interested  in  that  one 
matter  above  everything  else.  There  was  no  pretense 
about  it,  either.  He  really  was  interested  in  a  great 


26  The  Decision. 

many  things,  and  he  had  the  gift  of  concentration  to  a 
remarkable  degree. 

Naturally  the  principal  subject  of  discourse  was  foot- 
ball in  general  and  the  approaching  game  with  Farn- 
ham  Hall  in  particular. 

"We're  going  to  give  you  boys  a  run  for  your  money, 
anyhow,"  Phelps  laughed,  when  a  few  of  them  congre- 
gated in  Fellows'  room  that  evening.  "Of  course  we 
haven't  the  material  to  pick  from  that  you  have,  but 
the  team's  better  this  year  than  I've  ever  known  it. 
You  didn't  make  such  a  great  showing  against  Wells- 
burg  High,  either,  did  you,  Wendell?" 

The  Farnham  Hall  chap  shook  his  head. 

"Not  very,"  he  returned.  "But  we  were  handi- 
capped by  losing  one  of  our  best  men  the  very  day  of 
the  game,  besides  having  two  or  three  others,  including 
the  quarter  back,  knocked  out  in  the  second  quarters. 
The  game  should  never  have  been  scheduled  so  early, 
either.  We  hadn't  had  three  weeks'  practice,  and  you 
know  what  that  means  when  a  whole  team  has  to  be 
picked  out  and  coached." 

Unconsciously  his  tone  was  defensive.  He  had  not 
yet  become  used  to  the  feeling  of  being  on  the  scrub, 
and  for  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  that  he  was  de- 
termined to  get  even  with  the  entire  team. 

Phelps  nodded  understandingly. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  agreed  at  once.  "It's  hard  in 
any  case.  But  when  you  haven't  any  old  men  to  form 
the  backbone  of  the  team,  it  must  be  something  fierce. 
Staying  at  the  school  only  a  year,  I  could  never  under- 
stand how  you  fellows  did  so  well.  I  suppose  it  must 
be  your  coaching." 


The  Decision.  27 

"That's  just  it,"  Wendell  returned.  "Mr.  Merriwell 
is  one  of  the  finest  football  coaches  in  the  country,  and 
he  takes  no  end  of  pains  with  us.  We'd  never  do  any- 
thing if  it  wasn't  for  that." 

"Great  work,  Bob,"  Fellows  remarked,  a  little  later 
when  they  were  left  alone.  "That  spiel  of  yours -was 
just  right  for  putting  them  off  the  track  and  making 
them  think  you  were  all  for  your  team  winning  the 
game.  I  never  supposed  you  could  be  so  slick." 

Wendell  looked  annoyed. 

"It  happens  that  it  wasn't  done  intentionally,"  he 
said  stiffly.  "I  really  meant  it  at  the  time." 

He  was  angry  with  his  cousin  for  intimating  that  he 
had  been  deliberately  working  to  bring  about  an  effect. 

He  disliked,  also,  the  way  Fellows  seemed  to  be  tak- 
ing it  for  granted  that  he  meant  to  play  the  traitor. 
He  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind,  and  the  chances  of 
his  deciding  against  it  were  more  than  even. 

The  stocky  chap,  seeming  to  understand  that  he  had 
made  a  false  move,  did  not  continue  the  subject,  but 
branched  off  onto  something  else,  inwardly  berating 
Wendell  for  his  indecisiveness. 

Had  the  decision  lain  with  Fellows,  he  would  not 
have  hesitated  for  a  single  instant  to  take  advantage 
of  such  an  excellent  chance  for  revenging  himself  with 
almost  no  risk  of  being  found  out. 

Sunday  passed  quietly.  The  visitor  would  have 
enjoyed  himself  more  had  it  not  been  for  occasional 
twinges  of  conscience  which  assailed  him  now  and 
then,  particularly  when  in  the  company  of  Conant 
Phelps. 

The  captain  of  the  Haddon  team  seemed  so  frank 


28  The  Decision. 

and  honest  and  open,  that  Wendell,  thinking  of  the 
treachery  he  himself  had  in  mind,  was  ashamed.  Sev- 
eral times  he  pictured  the  contempt  and  scorn  with 
which  Phelps  would  regard  him,  could  he  have  had 
any  conception  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  thought,  and  more  than  once 
he  almost  decided  to  give  up  the  idea  and  get  his  re- 
venge some  other  way.  The  fact  that  nothing  else  in 
the  least  feasible  occurred  to  him,  was  what  kept  him 
from  telling  Fellows  that  he  had  decided  definitely 
against  the  scheme. 

The  result  of  all  this  mental  dillydallying  was  that 
Sunday  night  arrived  with  Wendell  no  nearer  to  hav- 
ing his  mind  made  up  than  he  had  been  twenty- four 
hours  before. 

"I  don't  like  the  idea,"  he  said,  when  Fellows  pressed 
him  for  a  decision. 

His  cousin  suppressed  an  angry  retort  with  difficulty. 
Whatever  other  good  qualities  he  lacked,  the  sandy- 
haired  chap  was  not  weak  nor  indecisive,  and  he  had 
no  patience  with  fellows  who  were. 

"I  don't  see  what's  the  matter  with  it,"  he  rejoined, 
with  some  tartness.  "There  isn't  a  chance  in  a  hun- 
dred of  your  being  found  out." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  Wendell  returned,  rather 
vaguely.  "It's  so  beastly  low-down  and  muckerish." 

"Rot!"  sniffed  Fellows.  "It's  only  paying  those 
slobs  back  in  their  own  coin.  I  can't  see  how  you're 
going  to  do  it  as  effectually  any  other  way." 

Wendell  sighed. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  complained.  "Neither  can  I. 
You're  good  at  that  sort  of  thing,  Clarence.  I  don't 


The  Decision.  29 

see  why  you  couldn't  think  up  something  else,  if  you 
put  your  mind  to  it." 

Fellows  frowned. 

"Well,  I  can't,"  he  almost  snapped.  "I've  thought 
up  one  good  idea.  If  you  don't  take  it,  I  wash  my 
hands  of  the  whole  business.  If  you're  so  squeamish 
as  all  that,  and  mean  to  let  those  dubs  walk  all  over 
you,  it's  none  of  my  affair." 

A  prolonged  silence  followed,  during  which  the  boy 
from  Farnham  Hall  sat  hunched  in  a  chair  looking 
anything  but  happy. 

He  wanted  intensely  to  get  even  with  the  fellows 
who  had  humiliated  him,  but  the  innate  sense  of  de- 
cency and  loyalty  to  his  school,  of  which  he  had  a 
little  in  his  make-up,  made  his  cousin's  plan  extremely 
distasteful. 

Besides,  there  was  Conant  Phelps.  Somehow,  he 
could  not  get  him  out  of  his  mind. 

"Look  here,  Clarence,"  he  said  suddenly,  "you'll 
never  persuade  Phelps  to  use  the  signals  if  I  give  them 
to  you." 

Fellows  suppressed  a  slight  start  with  difficulty.  This 
was  the  one  point  in  which  he  had  anticipated  trouble, 
and  he  was  surprised  that  his  rather  slow-witted  cousin 
should  have  thought  of  it. 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you,"  he  said  nonchalantly. 
"Thajt's  up  to  me,  you  know.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
turn  them  over,  and  I'll  see  to  the  rest." 

Another  pause  followed,  during  which  the  sandy- 
haired  lad  regarded  his  companion  anxiously  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye. 

Apparently  Wendell  was  approaching  a  favorable 


3O  Tfie  Decision. 

decision.  But  he  knew  that  it  might  not  necessarily 
come  to  anything.  Bob  was  quite  likely  to  change  his 
mind  at  the  last  moment  on  the  slightest  pretext  or 
none  at  all. 

Fellows  had  the  sense  to  see  that  perfect  silence  was 
his  role.  The  time  for  argument  had  gone  by. 

For  a  long  time  Wendell  sat  scowling  at  the  floor. 

"You're  perfectly  certain  nobody'll  suspect?"  he 
asked,  at  last,  glancing  up  at  his  cousin. 

"Of  course  they  won't,"  the  latter  hastened  to  as- 
sure him.  "I'll  fix  it  so  they  won't  have  an  idea.  You 
can  trust  me  to  do  that,  can't  you?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  grumbled  Wendell. 

He  stood  up  with  a  sigh  and  went  to  the  window. 

"Well,  I'll  do  it  on  two  conditions,"  he  said  pres- 
ently, without  looking  around.  "I'll  give  you  the  sig- 
nals. But  you've  got  to  promise  not  to  use  them  unless 
you  can  do  it  without  giving  me  away." 

"Sure  thing,"  Fellows  returned  readily.  "You 
needn't  be  a  bit  afraid  of  that.  What's  the  other  con- 
dition ?" 

"If  Phelps  objects  to  using  them,  I  want  you  to  drop 
the  whole  thing  without  making  any  effort  to  argue 
him  into  it,  and  send  them  back  to  me." 

He  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  if  a  fellow  like 
Conant  Phelps  could  bring  himself  to  making  use  of 
the  signals,  he  himself  would  not  be  doing  anything  so 
awful  in  giving  them. 

It  was  more  or  less  of  a  conscience  salve,  and  also 
an  easy  way  of  letting  some  one  else  settle  the  ques- 
tion for  him.  Privately  he  had  no  doubt  whatever 


The  Decision.  31 

that  Phelps  would  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
the  matter,  in  which  case  he  would  be  let  out. 

Fellows  raised  his  eyebrows  in  amazement,  his  lips 
parted,  and  then  closed  quickly  again.  When  he  spoke 
an  instant  later  it  was  in  a  tone  of  perfect  agreement. 

"That  would  naturally  follow,  Bob,"  he  said  slowly. 
"If  Con  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  them,  I  can't 
very  well  force  him.  In  that  case,  they  wouldn't  be  an 
earthly  bit  of  use  to  me." 

Wendell  turned  and  caught  his  eye. 

"And  you  won't  try  to  wheedle  him  into  it?"  he  ques- 
tioned. "If  he  refuses  after  you've  put  the  matter  to 
him,  it's  understood  that  you  let  it  drop  for  good  and 
all?" 

"Sure,"  lied  Fellows  instantly. 

He  had  no  intention  whatever  of  abiding  by  his 
promise.  But,  being  a  chap  more  or  less  lacking  in 
any  moral  sense,  he  had  no  hesitation  in  making  it, 
though  he  meant  to  break  it  the  next  minute. 

Wendell  straightened  up  as  if  a  load  had  been  re- 
moved from  his  mind,  and  walked  over  to  the  table. 

"Well,  under  those  conditions  I'll  do  it,"  he  said 
decidedly.  "Where's  some  paper?" 

Furnished  with  a  pad,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  stead- 
ily for  some  minutes,  only  pausing  now  and  then  to 
make  sure  he  had  forgotten  nothing.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished jhe  handed  the  sheet  to  Fellows,  who  took  it  hur- 
riedly as  if  fearful  that  the  indecisive  youth  might 
change  his  mind. 

"Now  you're  talking,"  he  remarked  lightly,  thrusting 
the  paper  into  his  pocket.  "If  this  goes  through,  you'll 
have  squared  things  with  that  swelled-up  bunch  good 


32  The  Decision. 

and  proper.    You  ought  to  be  darned  glad  that  I  hap- 
pened to  think  of  such  a  good  scheme." 

But  Wendell  did  not  look  particularly  glad,  and  his 
face  did  not  belie  his  feelings.  In  fact,  he  had  never 
felt  more  mean  and  despicable  and  ashamed  in  all  his 
life  than  at  this  particular  moment. 


CHAPTER  V. 

REMORSE. 

Bob  Wendell's  feelings  as  he  came  out  for  practice 
on  Monday  afternoon  were  rather  mixed. 

He  expected,  to  begin  with,  that  Shasta  and  the 
rest  of  that  crowd  would  welcome  his  appearance  with 
some  signs  of  triumph  at  his  downfall.  When  they 
did  not,  when  they  paid  no  more  attention  to  him  than 
they  did  to  any  other  members  of  the  scrub,  he  was 
actually  disappointed. 

The  truth  was  he  had  counted  on  their  antagonistic 
attitude  to  fan  the  flame  of  his  resentment.  He  needed 
something  of  the  sort  to  keep  his  temper  stirred  up  and 
stifle  the  qualms  of  conscience  which  had  been  assail- 
ing him  at  irregular  intervals  ever  since  he  handed  that 
paper  to  Clarence  Fellows  the  night  before. 

Had  he  been  met  on  the  field  by  shrugs  and  raisings 
of  the  eyebrows,  had  the  men  who,  he  told  himself, 
were  responsible  for  his  downfall,  shown  the  faintest 
symptoms  of  gloating  over  him,  he  would  have  been 
able  to  bolster  up  his  inner  self  with  the  defense  that 
what  he  had  done  was  only  something  well  deserved 
and  well  earned — the  paying  up  of  an  underhand  action 
by  one  equally  mean. 

Unfortunately  he  was  not  allowed  that  mental  satis- 
faction. 

Shasta's  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  cool  and  indifferent. 
But,  from  the  very  beginning  of  their  acquaintance,  the 
quarter  back  had  never  put  himself  out  in  the  slightest 


34  Remorse. 

to  be  nice  to  Wendell.  The  other  fellows  greeted  the 
deposed  guard  pleasantly  enough,  while  Phillips  even 
took  the  trouble  to  ask  him  how  he  had  enjoyed  the  trip 
to  Haddon,  and  inquired  about  several  of  the  boys 
there  whom  he  happened  to  know. 

No  one,  apparently,  had  any  intention  of  rubbing  it 
in.  Their  treatment  of  Wendell  was,  if  anything,  a  de- 
gree pleasanter  than  it  had  been  while  he  remained  on 
the  regular  team.  And,  instead  of  being  glad,  Bob 
resented  it  bitterly. 

"They're  so  glad  I'm  out  of  the  way  that  they  take 
the  trouble  to  be  decent,"  he  told  himself  angrily.  "It'll 
serve  'em  good  and  right  to  be  taken  down  a  peg  or 
two.  I'll  certainly  enjoy  watching  the  process." 

This  subterfuge  sufficed  for  some  little  time  to  keep 
remorse  at  bay. 

It  required  something  of  a  mental  effort,  to  be  sure. 
In  spite  of  himself  there  came  moments  now  and  then 
when  he  had  a  sudden  sinking  feeling  at  the  thought 
of  what  he  had  done  and  the  more  awful  possibility  of 
what  would  be  his  lot  were  it  discovered. 

However,  in  spite  of  everything,  he  managed  to  get 
through  the  afternoon  in  comparative  comfort.  He 
deliberately  refrained  from  hurrying  off  the  field,  as 
had  been  his  first  impulse,  the  instant  practice  was  over. 
Just  in  time  he  bethought  him  that  he  must  do  nothing 
which  would  show  how  sore  and  disgruntled  he  was. 
If  he  did  so,  and  the  fact  that  the  signals  had  leaked 
out  ever  became  known,  he  would  be  much  more  liable 
to  suspicion  than  if  he  had  the  appearance  now  of 
being  resigned  to  the  inevitable. 


Remorse.  35 

Consequently  he  made  a  special  effort  to  be  agree- 
able, talked  over  what  little  he  had  seen  of  the  Haddon 
team  with  Phillips,  and  strolled  back  to  the  school  with 
Garrett  Strawbridge,  Don  Shasta's  roommate,  who 
played  right  tackle  on  the  eleven. 

It  thus  happened  that  when  he  got  upstairs  he  found 
all  the  showers  occupied.  So  he  took  his  seat  in  the 
hall  outside  on  a  bench  placed  directly  beneath  some 
stairs  leading  to  the  corridor  above,  and  quite  out  of 
sight  of  any  one  coming  down. 

He  was  alone  on  the  bench,  and  had  not  been  there 
many  minutes  before  Phillips  and  Strawbridge  came 
along,  glanced  into  the  shower  room,  failed  to  see  Wen- 
dell in  his  corner,  and  then  strolled  to  a  window  near 
the  bottom  of  the  steps,  where  they  stood  looking  out. 

"Notice  how  decent  Wendell  was  to-day?"  Phillips 
remarked  presently.  "I  never  thought  he'd  take  it  so 
nicely." 

"Nor  I,"  Strawbridge  agreed.  "I  tell  you,  Jim,  it's  a 
mighty  tough  thing  to  be  dropped  from  the  team  the 
way  he  was.  If  it  had  happened  to  me,  I'd  been 
grouchy  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  ear." 

"It  is  tough,"  the  captain  acquiesced.  "I  hated  like 
the  mischief  to  do  it,  for  Bob's  a  good  fellow,  if  he 
is  a  bit  touchy  at  times.  And  he's  worked  like  a  steer 
and  not  missed  a  single  day  since  we  began.  He's  too 
slow  getting  started,  though.  You  know  that  your- 
self." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Strawbridge  returned.  "I 
sympathize  with  him,  though,  for  that  used  to  be  my 
fault  before  Don  took  me  in  hand.  Is  Leaven  worth 
an  improvement?" 


36  Remorse. 

"So  far  as  speed  goes,  yes.  I  can't  say  I  care  so 
much  about  him  in  other  respects.  Do  you  know, 
Garry,  I've  misjudged  Bob  a  lot.  I  always  had  a  no- 
tion he  was  inclined  to  be  something  of  a  poor  sport. 
But,  after  the  way  he's  behaved  to-day  and  Friday,  I 
can  see  it's  just  the  reverse.  He's  got  his  full  share 
of  grit  to  laugh  and  fool  when  he  must  have  felt  like 
the  mischief." 

As  he  listened,  Bob  Wendell  felt  his  face  grow  red- 
der and  redder  until  it  must  have  been  flaming.  For  a 
moment  he  tried  to  tell  himself  that  they  had  seen  him 
and  were  talking  for  his  benefit.  But,  even  in  his  more 
or  less  bewildered  condition,  he  could  not  make  him- 
self believe  anything  quite  so  absurd  as  that. 

They  were  speaking  without  the  slightest  idea  that 
he  was  within  hearing  distance;  and  what  they  said 
must  be  the  truth. 

And  he  had  blamed  Shasta  for  it  all!  He  had  in- 
sisted to  himself  and  to  Fellows,  the  only  one  with 
whom  he  had  spoken  of  the  matter,  that  he  had  been 
dropped  because  Shasta  and  one  or  two  others  on  the 
eleven  disliked  him,  when  all  the  time  it  was  for  a 
very  simple,  ordinary  reason.  He  had  not  been  up  to 
the  standard  of  the  team,  that  was  all. 

He  had  nothing  to  blame  any  one  for. 

He  was  just  enough  to  understand  that  Shasta  was 
under  no  obligation  to  like  him.  His  wrath  and  indig- 
nation had  been  because  he  believed  the  mercurial  chap 
had  worked  to  bring  about  his  downfall  for  personal 
reasons  alone,  whereas  it  would  appear  to  be  nothing 
like  that. 

Wendell  felt  as  if  the  last  prop  had  been  knocked 


Remorse.  37 

from  under  him,  letting  him  down  into  a  bottomless 
abyss.  A  rush  of  shame  overwhelmed  him  and  made 
him  long  to  get  back  to  his  room  and  shut  himself  in. 
He  would  have  fled  at  once  had  there  been  any  way. 
But  the  two  fellows  by  the  window  made  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  do  that,  and  in  the  other  direction 
the  corridor  led  into  quite  a  different  part  of  the 
building. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  stay  where  he  was. 
Drawing  his  bath  robe  tightly  about  him,  he  edged 
farther  into  the  corner.  At  any  moment,  Phillips  and 
Strawbridge  might  take  it  into  their  heads  to  come 
around  to  the  bench,  and  he  felt  that  he  simply  could 
not  face  them  now. 

Probably  he  was  never  so  relieved  in  his  life  as  when 
a  couple  of  fellows  emerged  from  the  showers  and 
raced  down  the  corridor.  In  an  instant,  before  the 
two  by  the  window  could  even  turn  around,  he  had 
dashed  through  the  doorway  into  one  of  the  vacated 
compartments. 

Kicking  off  his  slippers  and  throwing  the  gown  aside, 
he  stepped  under  the  spray  without  a  moment's  delay. 
He  scarcely  felt  the  tingling  of  the  cold  water,  and  was 
away  from  it  in  another  minute,  rubbing  himself  hur- 
riedly with  a  towel. 

Through  it  all,  his  one  intense  desire  was  to  get  away 
where  he  could  think  things  over  quietly. 

He  did  not  want  to  see  any  one,  nor  talk  with  any 
one.  For  he  felt  as  if  it  would  take  very  little  to  break 
down  his  self-control. 

All  about  him  the  fellows  laughed  and  joked  with 
one  another  from  the  various  compartments  or  yelled 


38  Remorse. 

frantically  from  under  the  showers.  He  heard  Phillips 
and  Strawbridge  come  in  and  take  possession  of  some 
more  of  the  vacated  booths.  And  the  instant  they  were 
under  cover,  Wendell  slipped  into  his  things  and  has- 
tened out. 

He  reached  his  room  without  being  held  up,  closed 
the  door,  and  turned  the  key.  Then,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  he  asked  himself  for  the  first  time 
a  definite  question. 

What  had  he  done? 

Without  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  reason,  he  had 
played  the  traitor  and  betrayed  his  comrades.  He  was 
contemptible  beyond  everything.  He  realized,  now 
that  it  was  too  late,  that  nothing  under  heaven  should 
have  induced  him  to  take  that  step.  Nothing  could  ex- 
cuse it.  Even  had  things  been  as  he  at  first  supposed, 
or  worse,  it  could  not  make  what  he  had  done  any 
less  despicable.  Because  others  did  not  play  fair,  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  lose  all  sense  of  decency  and 
honor. 

And  they  had  played  fair.  That  was  the  worst  of  it. 
That  was  what  made  him  cringe  under  the  lash  of  his 
own  thoughts  and  wish  miserably,  desperately,  that  he 
could  turn  back  the  hand  of  the  clock  twenty-four 
hours. 

But  was  it  still  too  late  ?  Perhaps  Fellows  had  not  yet 
made  use  of  the  information  he  had  given.  On  second 
thought,  it  was  quite  likely  that  he  would  take  his  time 
in  broaching  the  subject  to  Conant  Phelps. 

Perhaps  there  was  yet  time  to  stop  him. 

With  renewed  hope,  Wendell  flung  his  towel  aside 


Remorse.  39 

and  dragged  up  a  chair  to  the  table.  With  trembling 
fingers,  he  snatched  a  sheet  of  paper  and  began  a  letter 
to  his  cousin.  Halfway  through  the  rather  incoherent 
appeal  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"A  wire  will  be  better,"  he  muttered.  "That'll  get 
to  him  to-night,  or  the  very  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
at  the  latest.  I'll  have  to  work  it  out  so  nobody'll 
guess  what  I  mean,  though." 

Tearing  the  half-finished  letter  into  tiny  fragments, 
he  tossed  them  into  the  wastebasket  and  bent  to  the 
other,  briefer  task.  It  proved,  however,  to  take  longer 
than  he  had  expected.  It  was  not  easy  to  put  his  mean- 
ing into  words  which  would  be  understood  by  Fellows 
alone. 

He  wrote  and  tore  up  a  dozen  messages.  The  sup- 
per bell  rang,  but  he  paid  no  heed. 

He  must  get  the  message  off  to-night.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  be  frightened  now  at  the  possibility  of  dis- 
covery. Just  why  his  treachery  was  greater  than  it 
had  been  before,  he  did  not  reason  out.  He  simply  felt 
afraid,  and  horribly  shamed,  and  desperately  anxious 
to  retrieve  his  wrongdoing  before  it  was  too  late. 

And  so  he  wrote  and  tore  up,  and  wrote  and  tore  up 
again — and  mopped  his  perspiring  face. 

The  message  which  finally  went  over  the  wires  from 
the  Bloomfield  office — brought  in  three  minutes  before 
closing  time  by  a  breathless  student  who  had  cut  his 
supper — might  have  been  evolved  by  a  more  agile  brain 
in  about  three  minutes. 

"Have  changed  my  mind,"  it  read.  "On  no  account 
do  anything  until  you  receive  letter." 


40  Remorse. 

There  was  no  signature,  but  the  letter  which  went 
out  on  the  first  mail  next  morning  bore  explicit  direc- 
tions that  Fellows  was  instantly  to  return  the  paper 
containing  the  Farnham  Hall  signals,  and  consider  the 
entire  deal  off. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   FELLOW    WITHOUT    PRINCIPLES. 

Clarence  Fellows  lounged  on  the  window  seat  in  his 
room,  his  lips  curling  scornfully  over  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"Fool!"  he  commented  aloud.  "I  wondered  what 
that  telegram  meant.  A  perfect  jackass !" 

He  glanced  out  of  the  window  and  frowned.  Then 
his  eyes  returned  to  the  letter,  and  he  proceeded  to 
read  it  aloud. 

"  'DEAR  CLARENCE  :  I  have  changed  my  mind,  and 
don't  want  you  to  do  anything  about  those  signals.  I 
was  wrong  altogether.  I  have  found  out  that  there 
was  nothing  to  complain  of  in  the  way  I  was  dropped 
to  the  scrub.  It  was  perfectly  fair,  and  I  don't  want 
to  get  even  with  Phillips  and  the  rest.  They  are  not 
what  I  thought. 

"  'Please  send  me  back  that  paper  at  once.  I  hope 
you  have  not  spoken  to  Phelps — the  name  was 
scratched  out  and  "anybody"  substituted — about  it. 
But  if  you  have,  you  must  stop  the  thing  from  going 
any  farther. 

"  'Don't  lose  a  minute  in  attending  to  this,  for  I  am 
very  much  worried  about  it.  Yours,  BOB.'  " 

Fellows  read  the  name  of  his  cousin  with  scornful 
emphasis,  and,  folding  the  letter  with  a  vicious  twist, 
thrust  it  back  into  his  pocket. 

"Fool!"  he  repeated  contemptuously.  "I  wonder 
what  the  deuce  he  takes  me  for?  'Don't  lose  a  minute, 


42          The  Fellow  Without  Principles. 

for  I'm  very  much  worried/  "  he  mimicked  in  a  fairly 
good  imitation  of  Wendell's  tone.  "Very  likely  you  are. 
I'm  sure  I'd  be  if  I'd  done  a  crazy  thing  like  this.  But 
it's  nothing  to  me  how  you  feel  so  long  as  I've  got 
what  I  wanted  out  of  you." 

Which  sentence  was  about  as  accurate  a  keynote  of 
Fellows'  character  as  any  one  could  devise. 

So  long  as  he  got  his  way  by  fair  means  or  foul, 
he  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  wishes,  prejudices, 
or  desires  of  other  people. 

Thoroughly  selfish  and  quite  unhampered  by  con- 
scientious scruples  of  any  sort,  he  was  the  sort  of 
chap  who  seems  to  thrive  and  forge  ahead  to  a  phe- 
nomenal degree  by  means  of  his  deceitful  ways  and 
underhand  methods.  Some  day,  of  course,  he  would 
come  a  cropper,  and  his  fall  would  be  as  rapid  as  his 
rise  had  been.  But,  in  the  meantime,  his  almost  dia- 
bolical cleverness  kept  him  afloat  on  the  crest  of  the 
wave  of  success,  while  many  a  chap  a  thousand  times 
more  honest  and  decent  than  he  sank  beneath  the  sur- 
face. 

All  his  life  he  had  detested  Bob  Wendell. 

As  boys  they  had  been  thrown  much  together,  spend- 
ing almost  all  their  vacations  on  the  farm  of  the  old 
man  whose  only  grandchildren  they  were.  Even  in 
those  early  days,  Clarence  began  to  show  signs  of  the 
duplicity  which  became  later  his  dominating  character- 
istic. The  old  man  was  wealthy.  So  Fellows  set  about 
systematically  to  ingratiate  himself  in  his  relative's 
favor,  at  the  same  time  doing  his  best  to  show  up  Bob 
in  a  bad  light. 

He  planned  and  helped  to  execute  various  pranks, 


The  Fellow  Without  Principles.          43 

and  then  managed  to  throw  the  entire  blame  on  his 
cousin.  He  even  endeavored  to  make  it  appear  that 
Bob  was  underhand  and  dishonest,  and  went  to  great 
pains  to  produce  this  effect,  weaving  his  little  plots  dex- 
terously and  inwardly  sneering  at  Wendell  for  falling 
into  them. 

It  was  all  in  vain. 

Like  many  men  who  have  lived  long  in  the  world, 
John  Wendell  was  not  to  be  deceived.  He  seemed  to 
sense,  almost  by  intuition,  which  was  the  honest  boy; 
and,  no  matter  how  much  he  was  lectured  and  pun- 
ished, Bob  always  remained  his  grandfather's  favorite, 
while  Clarence  was  viewed  with  distinct  dislike. 

From  that  time  dated  Fellows'  hatred  of  Wendell. 
But  he  had  managed  to  conceal  it  so  well  that  Bob 
looked  upon  him  as  a  friend.  It  never  occurred  to 
the  Farnhani  Hall  chap  that  he  had  been  asked  to  Had- 
don  that  Saturday  for  any  other  reason  than  because 
Clarence  wanted  to  see  him. 

He  would  have  been  amazed  had  he  known  that  his 
cousin  was  moved  to  send  the  invitation  solely  and 
entirely  on  the  chance  of  obtaining  information  about 
the  rival  eleven. 

During  his  stay  at  Haddon  Fellows  had  discovered 
sundry  so-called  sporting  characters  about  the  village 
who  were  willing  to  put  up  real  money  on  almost  any 
event. 

They  were  not  governed  by  patriotic  motives  in  their 
Betting,  being  quite  as  ready  to  back  another  team  pro- 
vided it  was  stronger  than  the  Haddon  eleven;  and, 
when  approached  quietly  by  Fellows  on  the  subject, 
they  announced  their  intention  of  putting  their  money 


44          The  Fellow  Without  Principles. 

on  Farnham  Hall  in  the  game  to  take  place  the  fol- 
lowing Saturday. 

It  was  this  decision  unassailable  by  argument,  which 
had  caused  Fellows  to  invite  his  cousin  to  come  over 
and  see  him.  Knowing  Bob  so  well,  he  thought  it  pos- 
sible that  he  might  be  able  to  extract  something  inter- 
esting from  him  concerning  the  strength  of  his  eleven, 
and  perhaps  even  get  a  line  on  some  of  the  plays. 

The  possibility  of  securing  the  signals  had  never 
occurred  to  him.  But  when  he  discovered  how  matters 
stood,  he  had  lost  not  an  instant  in  working  to  that 
end.  He  had  succeeded  admirably.  And,  now,  when 
success  was  in  his  very  hand,  Wendell  wanted  to  back 
out. 

"I'll  see  him  in  Halifax  first,"  Fellows  commented 
aloud,  with  considerable  force.  "It's  likely  I'll  back 
water  now,  after  putting  up  my  money,  and  all  that! 
Hang  him !  He  always  was  a  milk-and-water  sissy  for 
all  his  hulking  size.  But  he'll  find  out  he's  up  against 
the  wrong  proposition  this  time." 

He  stood  thoughtfully  considering  the  matter  for 
some  time.  It  was  a  delicate  one,  which  he  would  have 
to  handle  with  considerable  finesse.  As  yet  he  had 
said  nothing  to  Con  Phelps.  He  was  awaiting  a  more 
propitious  time;  for  he  knew  that  it  was  going  to  be 
extremely  hard  to  persuade  the  captain  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  leaked  signals. 

For  all  his  talk,  he  was  not  especially  fond  of  the 
Kg,  hearty  chap. 

Phelps  was,  however,  so  universally  popular  in  the 
school  that  it  suited  Fellows'  purpose  to  be  on  friendly 


The  Fellow  Without  Principles.          45 

terms  in  that  quarter.  And  he  had  sized  the  captain 
up  pretty  accurately. 

The  dominating  characteristic  of  Conant  Phelps  was 
honesty.  He  was  clean-minded,  and  straight  as  a 
string,  but  he  was  also  extremely  ambitious.  Long  ago 
he  had  set  his  mind  on  going  to  Yale,  and  from  that 
moment  he  had  bent  every  effort  to  that  end.  He  did 
not  wish  to  go  through  college  as  so  many  men  are 
forced  to  do,  denying  himself  every  pleasure,  and  wear- 
ing himself  out  in  order  that  he  might  obtain  the  cov- 
eted bit  of  parchment  at  the  end  of  four  dreary  years 
of  toil. 

That  did  not  appeal  to  him  at  all.  He  wanted  the 
diploma,  of  course;  but  he  did  not  want  it  half  so 
much  as  did  the  elusive,  indescribable  something  known 
as  "college  life." 

He  wanted  to  do  just  what  the  normal,  average  fel- 
low did.  He  wanted  to  go  out  for  football,  and  make 
the  freshman  team.  He  wanted  to  make  a  society,  to- 
be  elected  president  of  his  class,  perhaps.  He  wanted 
to  be  popular,  and  to  be  one  of  the  men  who  stand  head 
and  shoulders  above  their  companions.  He  desired,  in 
short,  to  have  at  Yale  very  much  the  same  position  he 
held  at  Haddon  School. 

That  was  why  he  had  come  to  Haddon,  and  why  he 
worked  like  a  slave  through  every  summer  vacation, 
and  saved  every  cent  he  could  without  giving  himself  a 
reputation  for  meanness. 

That  was  also  why  he  wanted  desperately  to  win  the 
game  from  Farnham  Hall.  If  he  could  be  victorious 
against  the  stronger,  much  better-known  team,  his  foot- 
ball future  at  college  would  be  almost  assured. 


46         The  Fellow  Without  Principles. 

It  would  help  in  many  other  ways,  also ;  for  the  chap 
who  can  lead  his  men  to  victory  against  a  stronger, 
better  organization  is  pretty  sure  to  be  regarded  with 
favor  by  those  who  are  on  the  lookout  for  just  such 
material. 

Clarence  Fellows  knew  all  this  perfectly.  With  un- 
erring eye,  he  saw  the  flaw  in  the  other's  armor,  and 
made  ready  to  pierce  it  with  his  weapons  of  insinuation 
and  deceit.  To  begin  his  underhand  maneuverings,  he 
was  only  awaiting  a  favorable  moment  when  Phelps 
should  be  downhearted  and  discouraged  at  some  par- 
ticularly bad  showing  of  the  team. 

Meanwhile,  Wendell  had  to  be  settled.  Fellows 
laughed  scornfully  again  as  he  thought  of  his  cousin's 
frantic  appeal,  which  had  not  touched  him  in  the 
slightest. 

"What's  he  take  me  for,  anyhow?"  he  sneered,  pull- 
ing a  chair  up  to  the  table.  "Jove !  I'd  give  a  lot  if  I 
could  manage  it  so  they'd  find  out  what  he's  been  up 
to.  It  would  just  about  tickle  me  to  death  to  get  back 
at  him  that  way.  But  I'm  afraid  it's  impossible.  Can't 
show  him  up  without  getting  in  bad  myself.  Still,  I 
must  keep  that  in  mind.  Maybe  I  can  work  it  out 
later." 

Without  further  delay,  he  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and 
proceeded  to  pen  an  answer  to  Wendell's  letter.  When 
it  was  finished  he  arose  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

"That'll  about  do  for  you,"  he  commented.  "Now 
I'll  see  if  I  can't  do  something  with  our  esteemed  and 
lordly  captain." 


CHAPTER  VII. 
CUNNING   CLARENCE. 

"Judas!"  exclaimed  Conant  Phelps  hotly.  "It's 
enough  to  drive  a  fellow  wild,  Clarence." 

Fellows  nodded,  his  expression  anxious  and  thought- 
ful. 

"Pretty  bad,"  he  agreed.  "The  whole  bunch  seemed 
to  be  on  the  fritz  this  afternoon.  What's  got  into  'em, 
I  wonder?" 

Phelps  sighed. 

"Heaven  only  knows,"  Phelps  said,  in  a  discouraged 
tone.  "I  suppose  every  team  has  its  off  days.  But  this 
is  the  second  one  in  succession.  With  the  game  so 
close,  I  tell  you  it's  got  me  worried.  If  it  keeps  up,  we 
won't  have  the  ghost  of  a  show  on  Saturday,  and  I 
want  to  win  against  Farnham  Hall  the  worst  way." 

"So  do  I,"  echoed  Fellows,  speaking  the  truth  for 
once. 

He  hesitated,  turning  the  matter  over  swiftly  in  his 
mind,  and  wondering  whether  his  chance  had  come. 
They  were  walking  slowly  back  from  the  field,  after 
an  afternoon  of  practice,  in  which  almost  every  man 
on  the  team  had  been  so  absolutely  and  unimitigatedly 
"bum"  that  even  Phelps,  optimistic  as  he  usually  was, 
became  downcast  and  discouraged. 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  kept  on  in  silence;  then 
Fellows  shot  a  keen,  sidelong  glance  at  his  companion's 
clouded  face. 


48  Cunning  Clarence. 

"I'm  afraid  we  really  haven't  much  of  a  chance,  any- 
way," he  said  slowly.  "You've  done  wonders  with 
the  team,  Con.  But  you  know  yourself  the  sort  of 
crowd  Farnham  Hall  always  turns  out.  They've  got 
the  material  to  pick  from,  and  we  haven't.  It's  rather 
like  butting  up  against  a  stone  wall." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  say  that,"  Phelps  protested. 
"We've  at  least  got  a  show  of  winning  if  the  fellows 
only  brace  up  and  do  their  best." 

"No  team  from  Haddon  has  ever  licked  them  yet," 
Fellows  reminded  him. 

"Doesn't  follow  that  we  won't  some  day,"  the  cap- 
tain returned. 

Fellows  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  talk  that  way  before  the  men, 
Con,"  he  said  meaningly.  "But,  just  between  our- 
selves, do  you  honestly  believe  that  we'll  come  out 
ahead  on  Saturday  ?  Knowing  what  you  know  of  their 
team  and  their  past  records,  can  you  really  admit  that 
we  have  more  than  one  chance  in  a  hundred  of  licking 
them  ?" 

Phelps  did  not  answer.  His  pleasant  face  was 
twisted  into  a  rather  hopeless  scowl  which  told  what 
he  thought  almost  as  plainly  as  any  spoken  word. 

"No,  of  course,  you  don't — you  can't,"  Fellows  went 
on,  the  next  moment.  "It's  enough  to  make  a  fellow 
sick,  this  playing  year  after  year,  and  being  beaten 
every  time,  simply  because  we're  smaller  and  haven't 
the  material.  The  boys  are  all  good  enough  in  their 
way.  I'll  freely  admit  that  you've  picked  out  the  very 
cream  of  the  lot,  and  gone  to  no  end  of  trouble  to  work 
them  into  shape.  But  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that 


Cunning  Clarence.  49 

there  isn't  one  of  them  who  couldn't  be  improved  on 
a  whole  pile.  I  tell  you,  Con,  we're  outclassed,  that's 
what's  the  matter.  I,  for  one,  am  good  and  tired  going 
up  against  Bloomfield  just  to  give  that  Farnham  Hall 
crowd  something  a  little  more  interesting  to  practice 
on  than  their  own  scrub." 

Phelps  made  no  answer ;  but  his  face  was  darker  and 
more  discouraged  than  ever. 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  leaped  into  Fellows'  eyes  as 
he  noted  this.  The  ground  would  never  be  better  pre- 
pared for  seed  than  at  the  present  moment. 

"And  yet,"  he  mused,  almost  as  if  talking  to  himself, 
"you  have  only  to  say  the  word,  and  the  game's  as  good 
as  ours." 

Phelps  stopped  stock-still  and  gazed  at  his  com- 
panion in  utter  amazement. 

"What?"  he  exclaimed,  thinking  he  had  not  heard 
aright. 

Fellows  smiled  slightly. 

"I  repeat,"  he  said  calmly,  "that  if  you  say  the  word 
we  can  win  the  game." 

The  captain  snorted  impatiently. 

"Have  you  any  idea  what  you're  talking  about, 
Clarence?"  he  inquired  sarcastically.  "Is  it  likely  that 
I'd  stop  at  anything — anything  fair,  that  is — to  bring 
that  about?" 

Fellows  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  said.  "You  would  probably  not 
consider  this  fair.  Superficially,  perhaps,  it  might  not 
seem  to  be;  but  I've  thought  it  over  carefully,  and  it 
seems  to  me " 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  cut  out  the  small  talk,  and  get  to 


5O  Cunning  Clarence. 

your  point,"  Phelps  rasped.  "What  is  it  you  mean? 
Spit  it  out  quick.  The  ethics  of  the  case  can  come 
later." 

He  dared  not  hope,  and  yet  something  about  his 
companion's  assured  manner  made  him  think  that  he 
might  just  possibly  have  an  idea  which  would  amount 
to  something. 

"Very  well,"  Fellows  returned  coldly.  "I  happen 
to  have  a  complete,  accurate  copy  of  the  Farnham  Hall 
signal  code." 

Phelps  looked  at  him  in  bewilderment. 

"The  signal  code?"  he  repeated  dazedly. 

"Yes." 

"But  how  in  creation " 

"It  was  given  me  by  a  fellow  who's  just  been  dropped 
to  the  scrub,"  the  manager  explained  smoothly.  "He 
didn't  pull  well  with  Jim  Phillips,  and  was  consequently 
dropped,  though  the  man  they  put  in  his  place  didn't 
touch  him  as  a  player.  Naturally,  he  was  pretty  sore, 
and  passed  the  signals  on  to  me,  thinking  that  he'd  get 
even  that  way  with  the  whole  bunch." 

By  this  time  Phelps  had  recovered  his  composure  to 
a  great  extent,  and  stood  watching  his  companion's 
face  sternly. 

"And  you  mean  to  make  use  of  them?"  he  asked,  in 
an  ominously  quiet  voice. 

Fellows  smiled  a  bit. 

"I  can't  use  them,"  he  returned.  "But  if  I  were  in 
your  place,  I  shouldn't  hesitate  a  minute." 

"Lord  Harry,  man!"  the  captain  exclaimed  indig- 
nantly. "Don't  you  see  that  if  I  did,  I'd  be  putting 


Cunning  Clarence.  51 

myself  on  a  par  with  the  contemptible  scoundrel  who 
turned  them  over  to  you?" 

Fellows  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  don't  see  it  at  all,"  he  said  emphatically.  "The 
positions  are  quite  different.  While  I  should  never, 
under  any  circumstances,  think  of  betraying  my  team 
as  he  has  done,  I  can  sympathize  with  him  to  a  certain 
degree.  How  would  you  feel  to  be  thrown  off  the 
team  simply  because  the  captain  and  quarter  back  had 
a  grudge  against  you?  It  would  make  me  mighty 
sore,  and  I  can  understand  his  taking  the  first  means  at 
hand  to  get  even." 

"Nothing  under  the  sky  can  excuse  a  fellow  for  do- 
ing a  thing  like  that,"  Phelps  retorted.  "There  isn't 
any  use  talking  about  it,  Clarence.  I  can't  consider 
using  them  for  a  minute." 

"That's  what  you  think  now,"  Fellows  said  quickly. 
"Just  let  me  draw  your  attention  to  one  or  two  points. 
You  agree  that  otherwise  we  don't  stand  a  show  of 
winning,  don't  you?" 

"Perhaps  so." 

"You  admit  that  we're  hopelessly  outclassed,  and 
always  have  been?" 

"Well,  ye-es." 

"Just  listen  to  me,  then.  If  we  made  use  of  those 
signals  we'd  just  about  put  ourselves  on  equal  terms 
with  Farnham  Hall.  It  would  be  really  nothing  more 
than  when  a  chap  has  a  handicap  at  golf  or  a  small 
boat  has  time  allowance  in  racing  with  a  larger  one. 
Those  things  are  perfectly  fair  and  legitimate.  Why 
shouldn't  we  have  a  handicap  in  football?  Goodness 
knows  we're  smaller  and  weaker  than  they  are." 


52  Cunning  Clarence. 

"I  see  what  you're  driving  at,  Clarence,"  Phelps 
said,  more  quietly.  "But  it  can't  be  done.  Handicaps 
in  golf  or  racing  are  open  and  aboveboard — things 
which  everybody  knows  about,  and  which  are  in  vogue 
everywhere.  You  never  heard  of  a  handicap  in  foot- 
ball, though,  and  if  we  made  use  of  this  knowledge  to 
give  ourselves  one,  it  would  be  utterly  low-down  and 
contemptible." 

His  words  were  strong  enough,  and  his  voice  em- 
phatic; but  Fellows'  sharp  ears  caught  a  faint  under- 
current of  something  like  doubt,  which  heartened  him 
[wonderfully. 

"There's  another  thing,  Con,"  he  hastened  to  say. 
"You've  wanted  to  win  this  game  for  one  reason  in 
particular.  I  know,  of  course,  that  you  want  to  win 
for  the  school;  but,  even  more  than  that,  you've  been 
thinking  of  the  future.  You  know  that  if  you  should 
come  out  ahead  on  Saturday,  there  won't  be  a  ques- 
tion of  your  athletic  future  at  Yale.  A  man  who  can 
drill  a  team  like  ours  to  lick  Farnham  Hall  is  sure  to 
attract  attention  in  the  right  quarters.  It'll  help  you 
more  than  anything  else  you  could  do,  and  you  know 
it." 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  gymnasium  and 
stopped.  . 

Phelps  did  not  answer  his  companion  at  once,  but  it 
became  apparent  that  Fellows'  words  had  struck  home. 
His  face  was  fixed  in  a  thoughtful  frown,  and  his 
strong,  muscular  fingers  worked  unconsciously  as  he 
considered  that  phase  of  the  matter.  At  last  he  gave  a 
long  sigh,  which  had  something  of  regret  in  it. 


Cunning  Clarence.  53 

"I  understand  all  that,"  he  said  slowly.  "But  I'm 
•uraid " 

"Don't  decide  now,"  Fellows  put  in  hastily.  "Think 
it  over  to-night,  and  don't  forget  to  think  what  it 
would  feel  like  to  be  captain  of  the  freshman  eleven  at 
Yale,  and  maybe  president  of  the  class." 

He  hesitated  a  second,  his  hand  on  the  doorknob. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  brightened  with  a  light  of  malicious 
satisfaction. 

"It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  the  man  who  gave 
me  the  signals  is  Bob  Wendell,"  he  said  significantly. 

The  next  moment  he  disappeared  into  the  gym, 
leaving  Phelps  alone  with  only  his  thoughts  to  keep 
him  company. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CONTAMINATION. 

"Bob  Wendell !"  he  repeated  in  astonishment.  "Well, 
I'll  be  hanged!" 

During  Wendell's  brief  visit  to  the  school,  Phelps 
had  come  to  like  him  very  much.  He  had  found  him 
straightforward  and  pleasant,  and  they  had  discov- 
ered a  number  of  similar  tastes,  a  fact  which  always 
goes  far  toward  ripening  acquaintance  into  friendship. 

To  the  captain  of  the  Haddon  team,  Wendell  did  not 
seem  at  all  the  sort  to  do  a  thing  like  this,  and  at  first 
he  was  inclined  entirely  to  discredit  Fellows'  story. 

Instantly,  however,  he  realized  that  it  must  be  true. 
Wendell's  recent  visit,  his  intimacy  with  Fellows,  all 
united  toward  proving  him  the  traitor  to  his  school. 

"Bob  Wendell !"  repeated  Phelps,  in  a  quieter,  more 
thoughtful  tone. 

The  provocation  must  be  very  great  to  induce  a  fel- 
low like  that  to  betray  his  team. 

Phelps  tried  to  picture  himself  in  the  other's  place, 
and  had  to  acknowledge  that  he  would  be  furious  did 
such  a  thing  happen  to  him. 

"Of  course,  nothing  can  excuse  his  giving  away  the 
signals,"  he  thought.  "But  the  temptation  to  get  even 
for  such  a  dirty  trick  must  have  been  mighty  strong." 

Presently,  realizing  that  he  had  better  be  changing 
his  clothes,  the  Haddon  captain  joined  the  others  in 
the  dressing  room  of  the  gym.  It  might  have  been 


Contamination.  55 

noticed,  however,  that  he  was  extremely  quiet,  and 
he  departed  as  soon  as  he  had  his  shower  and  was 
dressed. 

He  was  thinking  over  the  situation  and,  in  particular, 
the  cleverly  put  arguments  of  Clarence  Fellows. 

At  first  he  told  himself  that  it  would  be  entirely  out 
of  the  question  to  make  use  of  the  signals.  Such  a 
thing  would  be  contemptible  to  a  degree,  and  he  would 
not  consider  it  for  an  instant. 

And  yet,  for  all  that,  he  continued  to  think  of  it  all 
through  the  evening.  Somehow  the  subject  fascinated 
him.  He  wanted  to  win  that  one  game  more,  perhaps, 
than  he  had  ever  wanted  anything  in  all  his  life  before. 

Fellows  had  been  right  in  saying  that  such  a  vic- 
tory over  such  a  team  would  result  in  making  him  solid 
with  the  athletic  crowd  at  Yale. 

Fellows  had  also  been  right  in  saying  that  without  a 
handicap  of  some  sort,  victory  for  Haddon  would  be 
almost  impossible. 

Up  to  this  moment,  Phelps  had  not  only  encouraged 
his  men  into  hoping,  but  had  actually  deluded  himself 
into  the  belief  that  they  stood  a  good  chance. 

It  often  happens  that  when  a  person  wants  a  thing 
tremendously,  he  usually  ends  by  believing  it  to  be 
possible. 

Phelps  knew  now  that  he  had  been  wrong.  They 
could 'not  possibly  win,  unless 

"Of  course,  I'd  never  think  of  using  them,"  he  said 
aloud,  in  his  room  that  night.  "But  we'd  have  a  cork- 
ing chance  if  we  only  could." 

He  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  a  mental  picture 


56  Contamination. 

of  winning  over  Farnham  Hall.  It  was  a  pleasing  idea, 
and  he  derived  considerable  enjoyment  from  it. 

The  possession  and  use  of  the  rival's  signals  would, 
as  Fellows  had  said,  put  Haddon  about  on  a  par  with 
her  great  rival.  It  would  be  a  desperate,  hard- fought 
battle,  but  Phelps  had  confidence  enough  in  his  men  to 
believe  that  they  would  win. 

After  all,  it  did  seem  as  if  it  would  be  more  inter- 
esting, more  exciting  to  the  spectators,  and  really  more 
fair,  were  the  two  teams  thus  reduced  to  a  state  of 
equality.  When  one  came  to  think  of  it,  the  spectators 
should  be  considered  to  some  extent.  Nobody  liked  to 
sit  through  a  game  which  was  simply  a  walk-over. 

"If  I  could  only  use  those  signals,"  Phelps  thought 
during  the  course  of  the  evening,  "that  game  would  be 
anything  but  tame." 

An  hour  ago  he  had  said,  "Of  course  I  couldn't  think 
of  using  them."  The  two  remarks  were  very  much 
alike,  but  there  was  a  vast  gulf  between  them.  Phelps 
himself  did  not  realize  quite  how  deep  that  gulf  was, 
but  had  Fellows  been  present  he  would  have  under- 
stood and  hugged  himself  for  joy. 

Unconsciously,  the  captain  of  the  Haddon  team  had 
been  working  around  all  that  evening  to  a  little  "if." 
Much  as  he  wanted  to  win  the  game,  he  was  not  the 
sort  who  could  make  use  of  unfair  means  so  long  as 
he  considered  them  unfair.  He  must  first  argue  him- 
self into  an  acquiescent  state  of  mind,  and  it  was  char- 
acteristic of  Conant  Phelps  that  he  honestly  tried  to 
eliminate  the  question  of  what  effect  a  victory  would 
have  on  his  chances  at  Yale. 

But,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  that  question  was  ut- 


Contamination.  57 

terly  impossible  to  ignore.  It  was  the  crux  of  the 
whole  situation;  the  motive  power,  not  only  of  the 
game  with  Farnham  Hall,  but  of  the  boy's  entire  ex- 
istence. His  life  at  Haddon  was  nothing  more  than  a 
preparation  for  that  greater,  broader,  fuller  life  which 
he  hoped  to  live  later  in  the  New  Haven  university. 
It  was,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  only  preparatory. 

And  so,  though  he  meant  to  cut  it  out  altogether, 
and  really  thought  he  had,  the  consideration  of  his 
chances  at  Yale  never  ceased  influencing  Phelps  for  a 
single  instant 

When  he  supposed  he  was  arguing  the  matter  out  in 
a  reasonable,  logical,  unprejudiced  manner,  somewhere 
in  his  subconscious  mind  he  was  picturing  himself  as 
captain  of  the  Yale  freshman  team  next  fall.  It  was 
not  his  solicitude  for  the  spectators  and  a  desire  to 
give  them  the  worth  of  their  money  in  a  close,  ex- 
citing game,  which  influenced  him  half  so  much  as  did 
the  thought  of  what  it  would  be  like  were  he  elected 
president  of  the  freshman  class. 

The  truth  was  that  he  wanted  to  use  those  signals. 
To  his  mind  it  was  true  only  way  whereby  Haddon 
could  come  off  victorious;  and,  when  he  reached  the 
point  of  using  that  very  small  word  with  an  infinitely 
great  meaning,  the  ultimate  conclusion  was  not  in  much 
doubt. 

The  transition  from  "if"  to  "how"  was  compara- 
tively simple  and  natural.  Pursuing  the  same  trend  of 
fallacious,  but  plausible,  reasoning,  almost  the  next 
question  in  Phelps'  mind  was : 

"If  the  signals  could  be  used,  how  are  we  going  to 


58  Contamination. 

keep  the  fact  that  we  know  them  from  being  per- 
ceived by  the  other  team?" 

After  that  it  was  as  good  as  over.  Without  having 
admitted  for  a  single  moment  that  he  had  the  slightest 
intention  of  taking  Fellows'  advice,  Phelps  worked  out 
an  elaborate  plan  of  campaign,  going  so  far  as  to  de- 
cide how  many  and  just  which  members  of  his  own 
team  would  have  to  be  let  into  the  secret. 

And  then,  having  deluded  himself  deliberately  with 
arguments  which  he  knew  to  be  false,  but  to  whose 
flimsiness  he  remained  purposely  blind,  he  slipped  out 
of  his  clothes,  put  out  the  light,  and  went  to  bed. 

But  not  to  sleep.  In  the  still  hours  of  the  night, 
with  the  crisp  breeze  blowing  across  him  from  the  open 
window,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  blue-black  arch  of 
sky  sprinkled  with  myriads  of  clean,  untarnished  stars, 
he  could  not  quite  keep  down  the  qualms  of  conscience. 

He  knew  that  what  he  had  decided  on  was  wrong. 
He  knew  that  by  accepting  the  stolen  signals  he  was 
placing  himself  on  a  level  with  the  traitor  who  had 
given  them.  But  he  did  not  change  his  mind ;  for  am- 
bition— gripping,  powerful  ambition— dominated  him 
now,  and  stifled  those  other,  better  qualities  wrhich 
might  have  saved  him  had  they  been  a  little  stronger. 

It  was  a  pity! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DESPAIR. 

Bob  Wendell  caught  his  breath  sharply  2nd  snatched 
the  letter  from  little  Willie  Stearns.  Without  a  word 
of  thanks,  without  even  hearing  the  boy's  halting  ex- 
planation of  how  he  got  it  at  the  office  with  his  own 
mail,  the  older  fellow  turned  abruptly  and  strode  away, 
his  face  a  perfect  mirror  for  the  anxious  suspense 
which  filled  his  soul. 

"I  thought  it  would  never  come,"  he  muttered,  tear- 
ing the  envelope  with  nervous  fingers  and  taking  out 
the  inclosure. 

For  an  instant  he  held  it  in  his  hand  as  if  not  daring 
to  look  at  it.  Then,  with  a  muttered  growl  at  his  fool- 
ishness, he  twitched  the  sheets  open.  The  letter  cov- 
ered two  closely  written  pages : 

"DEAR  BOB:  I  was  very  much  surprised  at  your 
wire  last  night,  and  even  more  surprised  when  I  re- 
ceived your  letter,  which  I  have  just  read.  There's  no 
sense  in  my  commenting  on  your  extraordinary  change 
of  mind  after  having  had  a  whole  day  in  which  to  con- 
sider the  matter  and  decide  exactly  as  you  wished  to 
without  any  one  trying  to  influence  you.  Of  course, 
the  discovery  you  say  you  have  made  about  the  attitude 
of  the  fellows  you  thought  were  responsible  for  your 
being  dropped  makes  some  difference ;  but  I  can't  help 
wondering  if  you  aren't  mistaken  about  this  last. 

"But  that  doesn't  make  much  difference  one  way  or 
another.  The  point  is  this :  What  you  ask  me  to  do  is 


60  Despair. 

utterly  impossible.  Before  your  wire  reached  me  I 
had  already  taken  up  the  matter  with  Phelps,  who 
proved  quite  agreeable,  and  together  we  arranged  a 
plan  for  using  the  signals.  By  this  time  more  than 
half  the  members  of  the  team  have  copies  of  the  code 
and  are  committing  it  to  memory.  You  can  see  from 
this  that  it  is  too  late  to  do  anything  about  it.  Even 
if  I  could  bring  myself  to  back  water,  it  wouldn't  do  a 
particle  of  good.  Once  the  boys  know  the  signals 
and  are  able  to  tell  in  advance  what  play  is  going  to 
be  made,  it  would  be  a  physical  impossibility  to  prevent 
them  from  using  that  knowledge.  They  couldn't  do  it 
if  they  tried.  They  would  know  instinctively  what 
play  was  coming,  and  no  power  on  earth  could  keep 
them  from  preparing  for  it. 

"Why  not  stop  worrying  about  it,  and  just  drift  with 
the  tide?  Let  things  go — for  that's  what  you'll  have 
to  do.  Personally,  I  think  you're  mistaken  about 
Phillips  and  Shasta  not  being  your  enemies.  It  sounds 
a  bit  fishy  when  you  say  you  were  bounced  because  you 
didn't  make  good.  I  know  you  and  your  playing  pretty 
well,  and  I  know  it  would  be  hard  to  find  your  equal 
at  right  guard. 

"Of  course,  I've  been  very  careful  about  all  this,  and 
no  one  suspects  where  the  signals  came  from.  I'm 
sorry  if  you're  disappointed,  but  you  can  easily  see 
the  situation  for  yourself. 

"By-by,  old  fellow,  and  don't  worry.     Everything 
Kill  come  out  all  right.    See  you  Saturday. 
"Ever  yours, 

"CLARENCE." 

For  a  full  minute  Wendell  stood  staring  at  the  letter 
in  actual  horror.  He  had  counted  so  much  on  being 
able  to  stop  Fellows  before  he  got  under  way  that  the 
disappointment  was  one  of  the  bitterest  he  had  ever 
known.  It  made  him  sick  for  a  second  or  two — really 


Despair.  6f 

physically  nauseated.  After  that  came  a  wave  of 
despair,  intense  and  utter. 

What  was  there  left  for  him  to  do  now  ?  Absolutely 
nothing.  He  was  helpless,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
obliged  to  stand  aside  and  watch  the  result  of  his 
despicable  treachery. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Fellows'  letter  was  a 
mass  of  fabrication  from  beginning  to  end,  that  there 
was  scarcely  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  His  cousin's  argu- 
ments were  plausible  enough.  He  had  to  admit  that 
they  were  unanswerable.  Once  the  men  had  learned 
the  signals,  nothing  could  prevent  their  profiting  by 
them.  He  was  surprised  that  Clarence  had  carried  the 
thing  through  with  such  expedition,  but  even  that  was 
quite  possible.  He  had  had  all  day  Monday  in  which 
to  put  his  plans  into  action. 

The  fact  that  Conant  Phelps  had  agreed  so  readily  to 
the  underhand  scheme  brought  with  it  not  a  grain  of 
comfort.  Wendell  was  conscious  of  a  sort  of  dull  sur- 
prise at  having  so  misjudged  the  chap  he  had  liked, 
but  not  for  an  instant  did  he  delude  himself  with  the 
idea  that  this  was  an  excuse  for  his  own  treachery. 

He  was  to  blame  and  no  one  else.  He  had  done  triis 
thing  with  his  eyes  open,  and  now  he  must  bear  the 
consequences  alone. 

Utterly,  intolerably  miserable,  he  went  up  to  his 
room  and  shut  himself  in.  Was  there  nothing  he 
could  do  to  repair  the  mischief? 

At  first  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  only 
thing  for  him  to  do — as,  of  course,  it  was — was  to  go 
to  Phillips  and  confess  everything.  He  even  got  so 


62  Despair. 

far  as  to  open  the  door  and  step  out  into  the  corridor, 
and  then  his  heart  failed  him. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  do  it.  He  knew  that 
the  result  would  be  annihilation,  utter  and  complete, 
so  far  as  his  school  and  college  future  was  concerned. 
The  fellow  who  had  once  betrayed  his  team  to  a  rival 
could  never  again  expect  to  take  part  in  athletics.  Not 
only  that,  but  he  would  always  be  regarded  with  con- 
tempt and  scorn  wherever  he  went.  His  whole  life 
would  be  practically  ruined.  He  could  not  do  it.  He 
had  not  enough  courage. 

At  length,  after  searching  desperately  for  some 
other  way  out,  a  tiny  ray  of  hope  came  to  him.  If  he 
could  only  persuade  Phillips  to  change  the  signals 
before  the  game  with  Haddon,  all  would  be  well.  But 
could  he  do  it  without  giving  his  reason  ?  He  was  not 
an  adept  at  deception,  being  a  chap  who  always  went  at 
things  directly,  without  any  circumlocution;  but  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  do  his  best ;  and  with  that  end  in 
view  he  lingered  after  the  practice  that  day,  hoping  to 
get  a  chance  to  walk  back  with  the  captain  alone. 

His  clumsy  maneuverings  happened  to  succeed. 

Phillips  was  detained,  talking  over  some  matters  with 
Frank  Merriwell.  When  they  parted,  he  naturally  fell 
into  step  with  Wendell,  whose  shoe  laces  had  become 
untied  several  times  and  slowly  retied  with  elaborate, 
time-consuming  care. 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  walked  along  in  silence. 
Wendell  was  nerving  himself  to  the  point  of  speech, 
and  Phillips  seemed  absorbed  in  thought. 

At  last  the  scrub  man  took  the  plunge. 


Despair.  63 

"1  suppose  you'll  be  changing  the  signals  pretty 
soon,"  he  remarked,  in  a  carefully  casual  tone. 

The  captain  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Change  the  signals?"  he  repeated.  "Why  should 
I  do  that?" 

Wendell  was  thankful  that  the  gathering  darkness 
hid  the  embarrassed  expression  he  knew  was  on  his 
face. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  returned  slowly.  "Matter  of 
precaution,  I  suppose.  I  thought  you  always  changed 
them  before  an  important  game." 

Phillips  laughed. 

"You  don't  call  the  game  with  Haddon  important, 
do  you?"  he  inquired  lightly.  "They've  never  licked 
us  yet." 

"They've  got  a  mighty  nice  little  team  this  year," 
Wendell  protested. 

"So  have  we.  Besides,  I  can't  see  a  chance  of  the 
signals  leaking  out.  I  may  change  them  before  we 
play  Fardale,  for  that's  the  big  game  of  the  season; 
but  the  boys  are  all  well  up  in  them  now,  and  it  seems 
like  unnecessary  work  to  give  them  a  lot  to  do  before 
Saturday." 

Wendell  was  bitterly  disappointed,  but  he  dared  not 
say  anything  more  on  the  subject.  'As  it  was,  he  was 
stricken  with  a  sudden  fear  that  he  had  said  too  much. 
'After .the  game  on  Saturday,  Phillips  might  remember 
this  conversation  and  become  suspicious.  Conse- 
quently he  hastened  to  agree  with  his  companion,  and 
at  once  turned  the  conversation  into  other  channels. 

The  days  which  followed  were  full  ol  positive  tor- 
ture for  Bob  Wendell.  He  worried  and  fretted  until 


154  Despair. 

it  was  surprising  he  did  not  give  himself  away  to  his 
companions.  Several  of  them  remarked  on  his  serious- 
ness, and  more  than  one  surmised  that  he  must  be  sick ; 
but  none  of  them  seemed  to  realize  that  it  was  sickness 
of  the  mind  which  troubled  him. 

From  time  to  time  he  cudgeled  his  brain,  striving  to 
think  of  some  way  in  which  he  could  prevent  the  thing 
he  dreaded  happening,  but  all  in  vain;  and  at  last  he 
awoke  on  Saturday  morning  with  the  realization  that 
a  few  short  hours  would  tell  the  story. 

The  Haddon  team  arrived  shortly  before  dinner, 
and  were  met  at  the  station  by  their  rivals,  who  es- 
corted them  to  the  house.  Wendell  was  among  the 
number,  though  he  would  have  given  almost  anything 
Jo  be  able  to  stay  away. 

Fellows  approached  him  at  once. 

"You're  still  worrying,"  he  said  reprovingly,  after 
an  appraising  glance  at  his  cousin's  frowning  face. 
"Don't  be  a  fool,  Bob.  It'll  all  come  out  right,  and 
nobody '11  suspect  you." 

Wendell  promptly  shut  him  up.  He  did  not  wish  to 
talk  about  the  matter.  Besides,  the  sight  of  Conant 
Phelps  had  given  him  an  idea.  It  was  absurd,  of 
course,  and  wholly  futile  had  he  realized  it;  but  still, 
by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  school,  his  mind  was 
made  up.  He  would  go  to  the  captain  of  the  Haddon 
team  and  beg  him  not  to  use  the  signals. 

He  hated  the  thought,  for  it  would  mean  giving 
himself  away  to  the  chap  he  liked,  and  who  seemed  so 
honest  and  open;  but  he  meant  to  do  it.  He  had  no 
way  of  knowing  that  Fellows  had  betrayed  his  trust 
and  broken  his  word  by  telling  Phelps  already  v/ho 


Despair.  6$ 

was  responsible  for  the  leak.  But,  then,  Bob  had  no 
conception  of  many,  many  underhand  things  which 
had  emanated  from  that  precious  cousin  of  his. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  was  never  going  to  get  a  chance 
to  speak  to  Phelps  alone.  Dinner  over,  the  fellows 
lounged  about  the  grounds  for  an  hour  or  so  before 
dressing,  but  always  the  pleasant-faced  fellow  from 
Haddon  was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  others.  Even 
after  they  had  dressed  and  made  their  way  to  the  field, 
the  same  trying  conditions  prevailed. 

Wendell  hung  about,  growing  more  and  more  anx- 
ious and  impatient;  but  at  last,  not  five  minutes  before 
three,  the  moment  came  for  which  he  had  been  waiting, 
and  he  lost  not  a  second  in  taking  advantage  of  it. 
Stepping  swiftly  forward,  he  touched  the  rival  captain 
on  the  arm. 

"Look  here,  Phelps,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hurried  tone, 
without  preamble  of  any  sort,  "won't  you  please  not 
use  those  signals  of  ours?  I  was  a  contemptible  cur 
to  give  them  to  Fellows,  and  I've  worried  myself 
nearly  sick  over  it.  If  you'd  only " 

While  he  had  been  speaking,  Phelps'  face  grew  sud- 
denly darker,  and  his  lips  straightened  out  in  a  thin, 
determined  line. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Wendell," 
he  broke  in  curtly.  "I'm  here  to  play  the  game  for  all 
it's  worth.  I  know  nothing  of  any  signals  except  our 
own." 

There  was 'an  utter  finality  in  his  tone  which'  cut 
Wendell  like  the  lash  of  a  whip,  and  made  him  realize 
the  futility  of  further  argument.  Phelps  had  evidently 
made  up  his  mind,  and  nothing  could  change  it. 


156  Despair. 

Without  another  word,  the  disheartened  chap  turned 
on  his  heel  and  walked  away  to  where  the  substitutes 
were  already  gathering.  It  was  too  late  now  even  for 
confession.  Nothing  was  left  him  but  the  hope  that 
his  team  might  prove  strong  enough  to  win  even 
against  the  heavy  handicap. 

They  were  so  totally  unsuspicious,  so  unprepared  for 
what  was  coming.  If  they  only  had  an  inkling  of 
what  was  in  store  for  them,  there  might  be  a  little 
chance.  But  they  had  not,  and  Wendell  could  not  give 
them  even  a  hint.  He  could  only  crouch  there  on  the 
side  lines  and  watch  with  sinking  heart  and  remorseful 
eyes  the  evidence  of  his  handiwork. 

His  lot  was  not  one  to  be  envied. 


CHAPTER  X. 

RETRIBUTION. 

The  game  started  with  a  rush  and  swing.  Farnham 
Hall  had  the  ball  and  began  at  once  to  work  it  down 
the  field.  The  boys  were  confident  that  they  would 
have  little  difficulty  in  making  a  goal  during  the  first 
quarter. 

Their  opponents  averaged  a  good  ten  pounds  lighter 
than  they,  and,  while  this  might  not  count  for  as  much 
as  it  would  have  a  couple  of  seasons  before,  weight 
and  strength  must  always  be  desirable  qualities  in  a 
football  player. 

Very  soon,  however,  it  was  seen  that  the  Farnham 
Hall  boys  had  underestimated  their  opponents.  In- 
stead of  carrying  everything  before  them,  as  they  had 
expected,  by  sweeping  gains  of  six  or  eight  yards  at  a 
time,  they  found  themselves  opposed  with  a  fierce  deter- 
mination, backed  by  brainwork  of  a  very  high  order. 
Evidently  the  Haddonites  made  up  in  speed  and  swift- 
ness and  grit  what  they  lacked  in  other  ways. 

It  was  a  complete  surprise  to  every  one  on  the  team. 
Shasta's  brain  was  never  in  finer  working  order.  He 
varied  the  plays  with  amazing  cleverness,  and  yet  the 
defense  met  them  each  time,  solid  as  a  rock.  Instead 
of  six  or  eight  yard  gains,  they  crept  forward  like  a  line 
of  snails,  sometimes  barely  making  their  five  yards  in 
three  downs.  At  length  they  were  driven  to  punt,  and 
the  pigskin  changed  hands. 


68  Retribution. 

Though  not  so  strong  on  the  attack,  Haddon  showed 
up  well.  Phelps,  playing  at  quarter,  was  fully  the 
equal  of  Don  Shasta,  if  not  his  superior;  and  the  ball 
was  forced  to  within  twelve  yards  of  the  Farnham 
Hall  goal  before  it  was  lost  by  a  fumble.  During  the 
remainder  of  the  quarter  it  did  not  once  cross  into  the 
fifty-five  yard  line. 

"Greatest  frost  I  ever  saw,"  Shasta  commented,  as 
the  players  gathered  in  a  little  group  during  the  three- 
minute  intermission.  "We've  certainly  sized  up  those 
boys  wrong.  They're  corkers." 

"It's  Phelps,  I  think,"  Phillips  said  thoughtfully. 
"I've  heard  some  mighty  good  things  of  his  work,  but 
I  never  thought  he'd  get  together  a  bunch  like  this. 
We've  got  to  brace  up,  fellows,  and  come  alive.  It's 
not  going  to  be  any  cinch.  We've  got  to  get  after  'em 
and  hammer  their  weak  spots.  Their  defense  is  quite 
some  better  than  their  attack." 

"It  sure  is,"  Shasta  agreed  emphatically.  "I  did  my 
little  darndest  to  get  through  them;  but,  no  matter  how 
I  varied  things,  they  were  right  on  the  spot  every  time. 
Seems  like  Phelps  was  almost  a  mind  reader,  and 
knew  what  was  coming  beforehand." 

"He's  a  clever  boy,  all  right,"  Phillips  agreed  ab- 
sently. "Just  step  over  here,  Don.  I  want  to  tell  you 
something." 

From  his  place  on  the  ground,  Wendell  watched 
them  fearfully  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  Shasta's 
words,  uttered  as  they  were,  in  a  half -joking  tone, 
struck  terror  to  his  heart.  Was  it  possible  that  they 
had  any  idea  of  the  truth?  Did  Phillips  suspect,  and 
what  was  it  they  were  discussing? 


Retribution.  69 

It  was  an  awful  thought.  What  should  he  do  if  they 
found  out  that  he  was  a  traitor  who  had  betrayed  them 
to  the  enemy  ?  He  felt  sick  and  faint  until  the  whistle 
of  the  referee  called  the  two  teams  back  to  the  field 
and  the  continuation  of  the  game  gave  him  something 
else  to  think  about. 

With  sinking  heart,  he  watched  the  waging  of  this 
unequal  struggle.  Presently  he  began  to  long  fiercely 
for  a  chance  to  go  into  the  game.  He  felt  that  any- 
thing would  be  better  than  sitting  here  idle.  If  he 
could  only  have  a  place  in  the  line,  he  might  at  least 
make  an  effort  to  repair  the  damage  he  had  done. 

Had  Phillips  only  known  it,  his  best  move  would 
have  been  to  put  into  play  the  substitute  guard;  for 
Wendell  would  have  fought  desperately,  fiercely,  as 
long  as  there  was  a  breath  left  in  his  body.  He  was 
wrought  up  to  that  pitch  when  men  accomplish  wonders 
and  astonish  everybody  by  fairly  outdoing  themselves. 

Unfortunately,  however,  the  captain  was  as  ignorant 
of  this  fact  as  he  was  of  that  other,  more  vital  one, 
which  had  made  the  contest  such  a  surprise  to  every 
one;  and,  though  two  men  were  disabled  during  that 
period  and  had  to  leave  the  field,  he  remembered  Wen- 
dell's poor  showing  of  late,  and  did  not  call  him  out. 

When  the  second  quarter  ended  with  neither  side 
having  scored,  the  excitement  began  to  run  high. 
Rarely  before  had  there  been  such  a  game  on  the  Farn- 
ham  Hall  field.  Usually  the  strength  and  standing 
of  a  team  can  be  pretty  accurately  estimated  before- 
hand. But,  in  this  case,  the  showing  of  the  Haddon 
team  was  a  complete  surprise,  even  to  their  own  sup- 
porters. 


7O  Retribution. 

Clarence  Fellows,  standing  among  the  substitutes, 
had  difficulty  in  suppressing  a  complacent  smile. 
Everything  had  worked  out  exactly  as  he  had  planned 
it,  his  only  fear  now  being  that  the  game  might  result 
in  a  tie.  He  had  great  hopes,  however,  of  there  being 
something  doing  toward  the  end. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  Farnham  Hall  men  could 
keep  up  the  pace  without  becoming  exhausted.  Charg- 
ing as  they  did,  time  after  time,  against  a  defense 
which  was  as  solid  as  a  stone  wall,  they  must  waste 
strength  and  energy;  and  when  their  best  efforts  con- 
tinued to  be  of  no  avail,  it  was  certain  they  would  be- 
come discouraged  and  lose  heart.  Their  opponents,  on 
the  contrary,  not  only  utilized  effectually  every  ounce 
of  strength  by  never  making  a  false  or  futile  move, 
but  were  buoyed  up  and  encouraged  by  their  surpris- 
ing success. 

With  the  beginning  of  the  third  quarter,  Fellows' 
judgment  was  vindicated.  There  was  a  perceptible 
lack  of  snap  and  ginger  in  the  home  team's  playing. 
Shasta  had  tried  every  trick  at  his  command,  and  not 
one  of  them  worked  as  it  should.  No  matter  what 
move  he  made,  or  what  strategy  was  employed,  their 
opponents  were  always  ready  for  them. 

It  was  small  wonder  that  the  majority  became  dis- 
heartened when  apparently  nothing  they  could  do  was 
going  to  bring  success.  Some  there  were,  of  course, 
who  never  gave  up  hope,  but  kept  on  fighting  as  they 
would  have  fought  had  the  odds  been  ten  times  as 
great. 

Unfortunately,  while  a  few  men  of  that  sort  may 
accomplish  wonders  by  individual  effort  when  condi- 


Retribution.  71 

tions  are  favorable,  it  is  almost  impossible  for  them  to 
rally  the  drooping  spirits  of  those  who  have  made  up 
their  minds  that  defeat  is  to  be  their  portion. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Farnham  Hall  began  to  lose 
ground.  Phillips  did  his  best  to  hearten  up  his  men, 
but  in  spite  of  that  they  fell  back  slowly,  steadily. 

Sick  at  heart  and  overcome  with  remorse,  Bob  Wen- 
dell saw  the  end  approaching. 

"If  I  could  only  go  in!"  he  said  to  himself,  time  and 
time  again.  "If  I  could  only  have  a  chance,  I'd  do 
something  to  make  up !" 

All  sorts  of  plans  passed  swiftly  through  his  brain 
as  to  what  he  might  do  if  that  chance  came,  but  ap- 
.parently  he  was  not  to  have  it.  Perhaps  it  was  retri- 
bution. It  seemed  only  just  that  he  should  be  con- 
demned to  watch,  inactive,  the  result  of  his  treachery; 
to  sit  there  with  nerves  quivering  and  not  be  able  to 
raise  a  finger  to  help  the  fellows  he  had  betrayed. 

He  groaned  aloud  as  the  Farnham  Hall  line  was 
forced  back,  back  until  they  were  battling  fiercely 
almost  on  their  very  goal  line.  He  yelled  incoherently, 
almost  hysterically,  when  Phillips,  desperate,  downed 
the  runner  by  a  splendid  tackle,  and  so  checked  the 
gains  that  the  ball  was  lost  for  the  moment  to  Farn- 
ham Hall. 

Two  minutes  later,  time  was  called. 

It  was  only  a  momentary  respite.  When  the  strug- 
gle was  renewed,  three  minutes  later,  the  Haddonites 
started  out  for  blood.  They  were  evidently  deter- 
mined to  score,  and  they  set  about  it  with  all  the  snap 
and  go  and  cleverness  at  the  command  of  their  brainy 
captain. 


72  Retribution. 

The  moment  they  had  possession  of  the  ball  they 
started  it  down  the  field  in  a  series  of  rushes,  passes, 
and  round  the  end  runs  which  were  brilliantly  planned 
and  executed,  and  against  which  Farnham  Hall 
seemed  helpless.  Again  and  again  Phillips,  Shasta, 
and  one  or  two  others  rallied  their  comrades  to  re- 
newed effort,  but  all  in  vain.  A  good  eight  minutes 
before  the  end  of  the  game,  following  a  fine  forward 
pass,  Phelps  made  a  touchdown  and  kicked  the  goal 
straight  and  true. 

The  game  was  thus  won  for  Haddon.  Nothing  else 
\vas  done  during  the  remaining  time  of  play;  and  when 
the  whistle  blew  for  the  last  time  and  a  frantic  yell  of 
delight  went  up  from  the  visitors'  support,  Wendell 
dropped  his  head  for  a  moment  into  his  hands. 

It  was  the  bitterest,  most  self -abasing  moment  he 
had  ever  known. 

He  saw  himself  as  he  was,  cowardly,  without  princi- 
ple, unfit  to  associate  with  the  fellows  he  had  wronged 
so  greatly.  He  would  have  chosen  to  be  beaten  with 
lashes  until  the  blood  flowed,  rather  than  to  look  into 
the  faces  of  his  comrades  as  they  came  off  the  field 
defeated,  but  trying  bravely  to  bear  themselves  non- 
chalantly. 

Perhaps  he  had  been  punished  enough  by  the  lashing 
of  his  own  thoughts.  It  had  been  a  lesson  which  he 
would  never  forget  all  his  life  long,  and  without  which 
he  might  not  have  awakened  to  his  most  glaring  fault 
until  it  was  too  late.  Perhaps,  taking  everything  into 
consideration,  it  was  well  that  it  happened  thus ;  for  a 
boy's  character  is  of  infinitely  greater  importance  than 
many  football  games. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    UNEXPECTED. 

As  he  walked  off  the  field,  surrounded  by  yelling,  re- 
joicing supporters,  Conant  Phelps  was  far  from  feel- 
ing that  joy  and  triumph  and  infinite  satisfaction  which 
fellows  in  his  position  usually  feel. 

He  was  not  exactly  proud  of  himself.  He  had  won 
the  game,  to  be  sure,  but  by  what  means  ?  During  the 
excitement  of  playing  he  had  been  able  to  forget;  but 
now,  as  if  to  make  up  for  the  respite,  the  realization 
of  what  he  had  done  came  upon  him  with  renewed 
force  and  made  him  wince. 

But  there  was  no  backing  out.  He  had  set  his  hand 
to  the  plow  and  must  follow  the  furrow  to  the  very  end. 
It  would  be  suicidal  to  allow  any  one  a  chance  for  even 
the  slightest  suspicion. 

So  he  pulled  himself  together  and  did  his  best  to 
carry  out  the  role  of  the  joyfully  victorious  captain. 
He  was  doing  it  fairly  well,  when  he  suddenly  came 
face  to  face  with  Frank  Merriwell,  handsome,  smiling, 
and  bearing  not  the  slightest  expression  of  regret. 

"Well,  Phelps,"  he  said  pleasantly,  extending  his 
hand  promptly,  "I  congratulate  you  on  giving  us  a  won- 
derful exhibition  of  football.  That  defense  of  yours 
was  one  of  the  best  I've  ever  seen,  and  your  attack  isn't 
far  behind.  Keep  that  up,  and  there  won't  be  a  ques- 
tion of  your  future." 

Phelps  took  the  hand  held  out  to  him  and  pressed 


74  The  Unexpected. 

it;  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  look  straight 
into  those  honest,  level  eyes.  He  had  never  been  so 
heartily  ashamed  in  all  his  life. 

"You're — very  kind,  sir,"  he  managed  to  answer. 
"We — did  our  best,  that's  all." 

"And  a  very  good  best  it  proved,"  Frank  returned 
heartily.  "I  wish  you  would  take  a  little  walk  with 
me.  I'd  like  to  talk  over  a  small  matter  for  a  few 
moments." 

Amazed  and  not  a  little  worried,  Phelps  acquiesced 
instantly,  and  together  they  strolled  slowly  away  over 
the  turf,  followed  by  more  than  one  wondering  glance. 

"I  won't  keep  you  long,"  Merry  began,  "for  I  know 
you're  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  boys.  What  I 
want  to  say  is  this :  I've  heard  indirectly  of  your  great 
anxiety  to  enter  Yale,  and  something  of  the  sacrifices 
and  efforts  you  have  made  to  get  a  proper  preparatory 
school  education.  You  know,  I  presume,  that  I'm  a 
Yale  man  myself.  I've  been  out  a  good  many  years, 
but  I've  never  lost  my  interest.  I  have  always  made  it 
a  point  to  do  the  best  I  can  for  boys  like  yourself  who 
will  be  a  credit  to  my  Alma  Mater.  I  don't  mean  that 
these  boys  must  necessarily  be  good  at  athletics.  That 
is  always  a  desirable  thing,  but  they  should  first  be 
decent,  straight,  and  high-minded,  as  I  think  you  are. 
To  come  to  the  point,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  give  you 
any  help  you  may  require  to  enter  next  fall." 

Phelps  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears.  The  thing 
he  had  longed  for  with  such  apparent  hopelessness  was 
within  his  grasp.  He  had  only  to  say  the  word  and 
his  future  would  be  assured.  His  cheeks  were  flaming 
with  shame,  the  words  Merriwell  had  just  spoken 


The  Unexpected.  75 

stabbed  him  like  so  many  knife  blades,  but  he  did  not 
stop  to  think  of  that  in  the  wonder  of  this  chance.  He 
said  the  word. 

"Don't  bother  to  thank  me,"  Frank  said,  as  the  boy 
stammered  and  stumbled  over  the  words  of  gratitude 
which  came  so  hard.  "Just  come  and  have  a  talk  be- 
fore you  go.  Hustle  back  to  the  boys,  now.  They 
want  you." 

Without  waiting  longer,  he  turned  and  walked 
briskly  up  the  slope  to  his  house,  leaving  Phelps  staring 
after  him,  his  face  full  of  varied  emotions. 

What  had  he  done?  He  was  no  more  worthy  of 
Merriwell's  aid  than  a  convicted  criminal.  He  had 
spoken  before  he  realized  that  what  this  man  had  of- 
fered he  could  not  possibly  accept.  Decent  and 
straight  and  high-minded!  He  laughed  bitterly.  He 
had  no  single  one  of  those  qualities,  and  yet  he  had 
allowed  the  assertion  to  go  unchallenged.  It  was  a 
deliberate  lie — as  great  a  falsehood  as  if  he  had  com- 
mitted it  by  spoken  words  instead  of  by  remaining 
silent 

He  hesitated  for  several  minutes,  apparently  rooted 
to  the  ground. 

Behind  him  the  fellows  were  calling  his  name  impa- 
tiently. Before  him  the  tall,  graceful  form  of  Merri- 
well  was  rapidly  retreating.  What  should  he  do?  If 
he  went  back,  no  one  need  ever  know.  He  might  carry 
out  the  deception  to  the  very  end.  His  dreams  would 
come  true  in  a  much  more  wonderful,  complete  man- 
ner than  he  had  ever  dared  to  hope.  But  could  he  ever 
be  content  with  that?  Could  he  ever  forget  that  he 
had  won  it  all  by  false  pretenses  ?  In  after  years  would 


76  The  Unexpected. 

the  fact  that  he  was  nothing  but  a  living  lie  ever  cease 
to  haunt  him  ? 

"No!" 

The  word  burst  from  his  tightly  compressed  lips 
almost  ferociously,  and  in  another  moment  he  was 
running  as  hard  as  he  could  after  the  broad-shouldered 
figure  of  Merry,  now  passing  through  the  trees  which 
fringed  the  field. 

"Mr.  Merriwell!"  he  called  loudly.  "Mr.  Merri- 
well!" 

Frank  heard  him  and  turned  around.  His  eyes  were 
puzzled  as  he  watched  the  rapidly  nearing  boy,  seeing 
the  expression  on  his  rather  white  face.  Accustomed 
as  he  was  to  reading  men's  characters,  he  realized  at 
once  that  Phelps  was  suffering  from  some  strong,  vital 
emotion.  He  felt,  somehow,  that  an  important  mental 
crisis  had  arisen  in  the  few  moments  since  they  had 
parted.  But  he  gave  no  sign,  and,  when  the  boy 
stopped  panting  before  him  and  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead,  he  waited  quietly  for  him  to  speak. 

"I — can't  accept — your  offer,  Mr.  Merriwell,"  Phelps 
stammered  at  last. 

Merry  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  his  surprise. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  asked  kindly.  "You  can 
regard  the  money  as  a  loan,  of  course,  if  you  don't  feel 
like  taking  it  outright." 

The  boy's  face  was  flaming  now. 

"It  isn't — that,"  he  said  haltingly.  "I'd  look  at  it  as 
a  loan,  anyhow,  but  I  can't  accept — even  that." 

Frank  looked  puzzled. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  ?"  he  asked. 


The  Unexpected.  77 

"Yes — oh,  yes !  But — I'm  not — worthy.  I'm — not 
what  you — think  me." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  the  man's 
eyes  searched  the  other's  face  rather  seriously. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  asked. 

Phelps  had  been  staring  at  the  ground,  but  now  he 
threw  back  his  head  and  gazed  straight  at  Merriwell. 
The  latter  was  startled  at  the  utter,  intense  misery  in 
the  boy's  fine  eyes. 

"You  said  I  was  decent,  and  straight,  and  high- 
minded,"  Phelps  burst  out  "I'm  not.  I'm  not  a  sin- 
gle one  of  those  things.  I've  been  a  cur,  and  I  can't 
take  your  help.  I'd  give  anything  in  the  world  if  I 
could  only  live  the  last  week  over  again." 

Frank's  brows  were  knitted  slightly. 

"The  last  week?"  he  repeated  questioningly. 

"Yes.  It's  all  happened  since  then.  You  think  we 
won  that  game  to-day  fairly,  don't  you  ?  It  was  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  It  was  all  a  cheat.  I  knew  your — 
signals,  sir." 

Merriwell's  face  was  stern. 

"You  knew  our  signals  ?"  he  repeated  slowly.  "And 
may  I  ask  how  you  got  possession  of  them?" 

Phelps  dropped  his  eyes  again  and  swallowed  hard. 

"One  of  your  men  on  the  scrub,"  he  explained,  in  a 
low  tone,  "was  sore  because — he  wasn't  treated  right. 
He — he  wanted  to  get  even,  and  so — he  sent  the  signal 
code  to  a — fellow  he  knew  at  Haddon.  They  were 
brought  to  me,  and  at  first  I  wasn't  going  to  use  them. 
Then  I  thought — I  thought  how  much  it  would  mean 
—if  I  won  the  game,  and — and Well,  that's  all. 


78  The  Unexpected. 

sir.  I  used  them.  The  game  really  should  have  been 
yours." 

There  wag  silence  for  a  moment.  Merriwell  leaned 
lightly  against  a  tree,  his  arms  folded,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  boy's  face.  They  were  cold  and  stern,  but 
somewhere  in  their  depths  was  a  tempering  glimmer 
of  regret. 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  boy  who  played  the 
traitor?"  he  asked,  at  last,  in  an  odd  tone. 

"Why,  it  was " 

Phelps  broke  off  abruptly,  and  glanced  appealingly 
at  Merriweil. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  me  that,  sir,"  he  went  on. 
"He's — he's  sorry — beastly  sorry — that  he  did  it.  He 
came  to  me  to-day  and  begged  me  not  to  use  them. 
Of  course,  it  was  too  late  then.  The  boys  all  knew 
them,  and  couldn't  have  helped  themselves.  I  should 
have  told  Phillips  all  about  it,  but  I  hadn't  the  courage. 
But  I'm  sure  the  fellow  realizes  what  he's  done,  and 
would  never  do  anything  like  it  again.  I  think — it's 
been  a — a  lesson  to  him,  just  as  it's  been  to  me." 

Frank's  face  was  rather  grim. 

"Very  well,"  he  commented.  "If  you  feel  that  way, 
I  won't  urge  you." 

He  paused  a  moment,  his  eyes  fixed  curiously  on  the 
boy's  flushed  face. 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  this,  Phelps  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 
"Didn't  you  realize  that  if  you  kept  still  no  one  would 
have  ever  known  ?  You  could  have  gone  to  Yale  and 
made  a  success  there.  I  should  never  have  been  the 
wiser." 

Again  the  boy  raised  his  eyes  to  Merry's. 


The  Unexpected.  79 

"I  thought  of  that,"  he  said  simply.  "I  wanted  to  do 
it  awfully,  but  I  couldn't." 

"Why?" 

"It  would  have  been  worse  than  using  the  signals. 
I'd  have  been  lying  every  minute  of  the  time  by  taking 
your  money  and  letting  you  think  I  was  something 
which  I  wasn't.  I'd  never  have  had  a  moment's  peace, 
while  now " 

He  hesitated,  and  Frank  finished  the  sentence  for 
him: 

"While  now  you  feel  as  if  you'd  made  reparation  by 
giving  up  something  you  want  very  much.  Sort  of  a 
salve  to  conscience,  in  other  words." 

"Perhaps  so,"  Phelps  answered  slowly.  He  had  not 
analyzed  his  motives  to  this  extent  "I  don't  know 
just  why  I  did  it,  except  that  I  simply  couldn't  go  on 
letting  you  think  I  was  worthy  of  taking  your  help  and 
becoming  a  Yale  man  when — I — wasn't." 

His  voice  faltered  a  little  toward  the  end,  and  his 
lids  dropped  swiftly  over  eyes  which  seemed  abnor- 
mally bright. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  right,  Phelps,"  Merriwell  said 
regretfully.  "No  man  who  uses  the  signals  of  an- 
other team  in  order  that  he  may  win  a  victory  is  worthy 
to  be  a  Yale  man.  He  may  win  on  the  football  field, 
but  he  has  lost  something  infinitely  better,  infinitely 
greater — his  integrity  and  self-respect.  I'm  sorrier 
than  I  can  say  that  you  have  done  this,  but  I'm  glad 
you  were  man  enough  to  come  and  tell  me  about  it 
That  does  not  repair  the  wrong,  but  it  shows  you  to 
have  the  right  feeling." 

Rather  abruptly,  without  even  so  much  as  a  good- 


8o  The  Unexpected. 

by,  Merry  turned  and  walked  slowly  away  through  the 
trees,  leaving  Phelps  heartsick  and  full  of  unavailing 
regrets.  Too  late,  the  boy  wished  desperately  that  he 
had  not  done  this  thing,  that  he  had  kept  to  his  first 
impulse  and  not  listened  to  insidious  temptation  for  a 
single  moment.  But,  underneath  everything,  he  was 
glad  he  had  done  his  best  to  make  good  by  telling  Mer- 
riwell  the  truth. 


A  week  later  Conant  Phelps  came  into  his  room  and 
dropped  disconsolately  into  a  chair.  He  was  still  glad 
of  the  step  he  had  taken,  but  at  every  hour  of  the  day 
he  was  assailed  by  bitter  regret  at  the  opportunity  he 
had  lost.  If  only  he  had  kept  straight  he  would  now 
be  looking  forward  confidently  to  the  goal  he  had 
longed  for,  for  so  many  years.  He  knew  it  was  futile, 
but  he  could  not  help  sighing  over  what  was  impos- 
sible. 

Presently  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  letter  lying  on  the 
table,  and  he  took  it  up.  It  was  postmarked  Bloom- 
field,  and  in  wondering  haste  he  slit  it  open  and  took 
out  the  contents. 

It  was  a  letter  from  Frank  Merriwell,  and,  as  he 
glanced  swiftly  through  it,  he  flushed  and  paled. 

"My  DEAR  PHELPS  :  During  the  past  week  you  have 
been  in  my  mind  to  a  considerable  extent.  Somehow 
I  have  a  notion  that  your  first  experience  in  the  crooked 
way  is  likely  to  be  your  last,  and  I  have,  therefore,  se- 
cured a  scholarship  at  Yale  for  you,  and  will  see  that 
you  are  looked  after  in  other  ways  when  you  enter 
next  fall. 

"I  think  I  can  trust  you  now  to  be  straight  and  de- 


The  Unexpected.  81 

cent  always,  a  man  who  will  be  a  credit  to  Yale,  and 
to  himself.    Sincerely  yours, 

"FRANK  MERRIWELL." 

The  letter  dropped  unheeded  from  the  boy's  hand 
and  fluttered  to  the  floor.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  sat 
staring  straight  before  him,  his  lips  trembling  slightly. 
Suddenly  he  sat  erect  and  brought  one  fist  down  on  the 
chair  arm  with  a  thump. 

"By  Heaven,  he  can!"  he  exclaimed  fiercely.  "I'll 
never  make  him  sorry  he's  done  this  thing.  I'll  never 
do  anything  as  long  as  I  live  which  will  make  him 
ashamed  of  having  helped  me." 

Springing  to  his  feet,  he  walked  over  to  the  window 
and  stood  there  with  his  face  pressed  against  the  pane. 
There  was  a  long,  long  pause ;  but  when  he  returned  to 
the  table  the  darkness  made  his  face  indistinct. 

"He's  the  best  man  that  ever  lived !"  he  murmured 
softly. 

Soon  after  this,  however,  a  new  boy  arrived  at  the 
school — one  who  prided  himself  on  his  ancestry — and 
Frank  Merriwell  found  himself  with  a  second  boy  on 
his  hands  who  had  to  be  given  another  chance. 


"CHAPTER  xn. 

UNKNOWN   BENEFACTOR. 

Before  the  new  boy  came  to  the  school,  a  certain 
incident  occurred  which  had  a  most  important  bearing 
on  the  conduct  of  the  boy  in  question  during  the  first 
weeks  of  his  enrollment  at  Merriwell's. 

The  front  door  slammed  and  through  the  hall  came 
the  sound  of  rapid  footsteps.  John  Huntingdon  Blake 
laid  his  pen  aside  and  half  turned  in  the  desk  chair,  an 
expression  of  thankfulness  on  his  pleasant  face. 

"Well !"  he  exclaimed,  as  a  tall,  well-built  man,  some 
years  his  senior,  entered  the  room  and  dropped  a  doc- 
tor's bag  on  the  nearest  chair.  "It's  about  time  you 
showed  up.  I  had  an  idea  that  you  said  you'd  be  back 
at  eleven  and  here  it  is" — he  took  out  a  beautiful  and 
very  costly  gold  watch — "just  twenty-three  minutes 
past  one.  It's  up  to  you  to  give  an  account  of  those 
two  hours,  Mac." 

Angus  Macdonald  smiled  a  bit  as  he  sank  into  an 
easy-chair.  He  looked  rather  tired  and  not  a  little 
discouraged. 

"Doctors  never  have  to  give  an  account  of  them- 
selves," he  bantered. 

"Don't  wriggle  out,"  Blake  admonished.  "Old, 
established  doctors  haven't  a  minute  to  breathe,  I'll 

admit;  but  young,  callow  ones Why,  ever  since 

I  came  you've  had  time  to  burn,  Mac." 

"You  needn't  rub  it  in,  kid,"  Macdooald  returned, 


The  Unknown  Benefactor.  83 

with  some  asperity.  "My  patients  may  be  few  and 
far  between,  but  they're  coming,  boy — they're 
coming." 

A  slight  shadow  passed  over  the  young  fellow's 
face.  For  a  youth  of  not  more  than  seventeen,  he  was 
singularly  self-possessed  and  had  a  noticeable  swagger. 
Had  it  been  accompanied  by  a  lesser  degree  of  good 
taste,  it  might  have  approached  dangerously  near  that 
unpleasant  quality  denoted  by  the  vulgarly  inclined  as 
"lugs."  As  it  was,  however,  it  did  not  seem  out  of 
keeping  with  Blake's  general  atmosphere  of  refine- 
ment. 

Blake's  friends  had  been  known  to  express  the  wish 
that  he  was  a  little  less  refined.  It  seemed  to  be  almost 
a  mania  with  the  chap,  and  was  decidedly  unusual 
in  one  so  young.  His  manners  were  polished  to  the 
last  degree,  and,  though  his  home  was  in  California, 
he  had  acquired  the  broad  "a"  and  other  peculiarities 
of  accent  which  mark  the  speech  of  English  people 
and  many  residents  of  New  England. 

His  clothes  and  general  appointments  were  miracles 
of  taste.  He  would  almost  as  soon  have  thought  of 
appearing  on  the  street  in  pajamas,  as  he  would  of 
wearing  socks  and  scarf  which  did  not  harmonize. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  he  was,  at  the  bottom, 
as  decent  a  chap  as  one  could  desire.  He  was  clean- 
minded,  generous  to  a  fault,  and  a  thoroughly  good 
sort.  He  did  not,  however,  relish  any  reminders  of 
his  youth  such  as  "kid"  and  "boy,"  even  from  men  as 
old  as  Doctor  Macdonald.  Hence  that  slight  frown, 
which  passed  swiftly,  for  he  was  too  well  bred  to  show 
that  such  things  were  distasteful. 


84  The  Unknown  Benefactor. 

"I'm  glad  they  are  coming,"  he  smiled,  "even  if 
their  arrival  is  a  little  slow.  Was  it  a  new  one  who 
delayed  you  to-day?  Some  millionaire,  I  hope,  who 
wanted  a  five-thousand-dollar  operation  performed." 

"Nothing  like  it,"  sighed  Macdonald.  "This  is  at 
quite  the  other  end  of  the  ladder." 

He  frowned  a  little  at  the  recollection  and  proceeded 
to  fill  and  light  his  pipe. 

"It's  a  mighty  hard  case,  John,"  he  resumed,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair  again.  "I  suppose  I'm  soft  and 
easy  and  will  get  a  lot  more  callous  before  long,  but 
I  can't  help  being  impressed  now  and  then  by  things 
I  see." 

He  stopped  again,  and  Blake,  who  had  been  playing 
absently  with  the  slender  gold  watch  chain  draped 
across  his  vest,  glanced  up  at  him. 

"Well?"  he  questioned.  "What's  the  matter?  Aren't 
you  going  to  tell  me  about  it?" 

Macdonald  looked  slightly  embarrassed. 

"It  seems  so  thundering  like  a  touch,"  he  explained 
boyishly.  "You've  shelled  out  twice,  John,  since  you 
came  here  for  cases  of  this  sort  I've  run  across,  and 
I'm  afraid  you'll  go  away  with  the  impression  that 
I've  been  bleeding  you  just  because  you  have  more 
money  than  you  know  what  to  do  with." 

Blake  laughed. 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you,"  he  chuckled.  "I'd 
never  think  that,  and  you  ought  to  know  it.  Go  ahead 
with  your  story." 

"Well,  since  you  insist,  here  goes:  The  man's 
name  is  Brown " 


The  Unknown  Benefactor.  85 

"Uncommon,  isn't  it?"  Blake  murmured  mischie- 
vously. 

"No  more  so  than  his  story,"  the  doctor  went  on, 
rather  fiercely.  "It's  the  old  tale  of  injury  when  in  the 
employ  of  a  wealthy  corporation,  and  then  being 
dumped  by  his  employers  taking  advantage  of  a  quib- 
ble of  the  law  to  evade  responsibility.  He  was  a 
brakeman  on  the  O.  &  I.  road,  and  lost  a  leg  here  in 
the  Cleveland  yards.  Unfortunately  they  proved  that 
it  was  due  to  his  own  negligence,  so  he  couldn't  sue. 
They  were  responsible  for  his  doctor's  bills,  however, 
which  would  have  been  all  right  had  he  kept  on  with 
the  physician  who  looked  after  him  first.  He  didn't 
like  the  man,  however,  and  made  a  change.  They  paid 
the  first  doctor,  but  refused  to  settle  with  the  second." 

Blake  looked  indignant. 

"How  could  they  do  that?"  he  demanded.  "I  don't 
see  what  difference  it  makes  whether  he  went  to  half 
a  dozen  doctors  so  long  as  he  was  hurt  while  working 
for  them." 

"The  law  says  that  they  must  pay  the  first  doctor's 
bill,  but  if  a  change  is  made  that  lets  them  out." 

"I  never  heard  of  anything  so  unfair,"  Blake  ex- 
claimed hotly. 

"It's  the  law,  just  the  same,"  Macdonald  returned. 
"Unfortunately,  Brown  knew  nothing  about  it.  He 
went  merrily  on  rolling  up  visits  from  the  second  doc- 
tor to  the  tune  of  some  two  hundred  dollars  before  he 
got  wise.  Now  he's  up  against  it.  He  can't  go  back 
to  his  old  job,  of  course,  and  the  railroad  has  nothing 
for  him  but  some  light  work  around  the  yards  at  a 
dollar  and  a  half  a  day. 


86  The  Unknown  Benefactor. 

"During  his  illness,  all  kinds  of  other  bills  have  been 
piling  up.  He's  got  a  wife  and  four  children  to  sup- 
port, and  he's  just  about  discouraged.  Two  of  the 
boys  can  work,  but  the  oldest,  a  chap  of  eighteen,  has 
always  been  eager  for  a  good  education.  He's  as  nice 
a  fellow  as  I  ever  saw,  pleasant-mannered  and  bright 
as  they  make  'em.  He  was  going  to  enter  college  next 
fall  and  stood  a  good  chance  of  working  his  way 
through,  for  he's  corking  at  math,  and  could  easily 
tutor.  Of  course  that's  all  over  with  now.  He  got 
a  job  in  a  canning  factory,  and  is  doing  his  best  to  keep 
things  going;  but  it's  a  darned  shame,  John,  that  a 
fellow  with  his  ability  and  inclinations  should  practi- 
cally ruin  his  whole  life." 

Blake  regarded  the  seal  ring  on  the  little  finger 
of  his  left  hand  thoughtfully.  It  was  severely  plain 
and  bore  upon  its  surface  a  coat  of  arms — the  arms 
of  Admiral  Blake,  who  lived  and  made  quite  a  stir 
in  the  world  at  the  time  of  Charles  I.,  of  England. 

"Ye-es,"  he  assented,  at  length.  "It  does  seem  a 
pity." 

He  examined  his  carefully  manicured  fingers  and 
then  glanced  up  suddenly. 

"How  much  did  this  Jones  get  before  he  was  hurt, 
Mac?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"I  believe  he  averaged  eighteen  dollars  a  week,"  the 
doctor  returned.  "Sometimes  it  was  more  when  he 
worked  overtime.  I  imagine  it  was  never  less." 

"Eighteen  dollars  a  week!"  Blake  exclaimed  incredu- 
lously. "And  do  you  mean  to  say  a  man  can  raise  a 
family  of  five  on  that?" 

Macdonald  smiled  grimly. 


The  Unknown  Benefactor.  87 

"It's  done  on  less  than  that,  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  times,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said. 

"But  how  is  it  possible?" 

"It  has  to  be  possible,"  the  older  man  retorted.  "It's 
that  or  the  poorhouse.  You  have  a  great  deal  to  learn, 
John.  Eighteen  dollars  a  week  is  really  big  money. 
Of  course,  the  two  boys  helped  a  little  out  of  school 
hours,  but  it  wasn't  much." 

"I  should  think  not,"  Blake  said  emphatically.  "If 
one  of  them  put  in  much  time  getting  an  education." 

He  crossed  his  legs  and  linked  his  fingers  loosely 
over  one  knee. 

"Great  Scott,  Mac!"  he  went  on.  "It  ought  not  to 
be  a  hard  thing  for  a  man  to  get  a  job  paying  three 
dollars  a  day." 

"You're  forgetting  he  has  only  one  leg." 

"Still,"  persisted  the  youngster,  "there  must  be  lots 
of  things  a  one-legged  man  can  do." 

Macdonald's  eyes  twinkled. 

"For  instance?"  he  queried. 

"Oh,  well — er — er — a  watchman,  for  one  thing. 
They  just  sit  in  a  chair,  or  hobble  around  a  building  at 
night.  All  I've  ever  seen  have  been  old  as  the  hills, 
or  else  crippled." 

"He  might  do  that,  but  who's  going  to  get  him  such 
a  position  ?"  the  doctor  inquired  pertinently.  "He  has 
no  influence,  and  neither  have  I." 

"I  know  Colonel  Snowden,  president  of  the  Cleve- 
land &  Chicago  Railroad,"  Blake  suggested.  "Don't 
you  suppose  he  could  give  Brown  something  to  do  ?" 

"He  could  if  he  would." 


88  The  Unknown  Benefactor. 

"I  guess  he  will,  all  right.  Dad  and  he  are  great 
friends.  We'll  stop  in  and  see  him  after  lunch." 

Blake  heaved  a  sigh,  as  if  thankful  to  get  the  matter 
over  with. 

"There,  that's  settled,"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  I'll 
draw  a  check  for  the  doctor's  bill,  and  we  can  leave 
this  rather  dismal  subject.  How  much  did  you  say 
it  was  ?" 

"Two  hundred  and  twenty,"  Macdonald  returned. 
"But  look  here,  John,  there's  no  sense  in  your  settling 
the  whole  of  it.  If  he  has  this  position " 

"He'll  want  every  cent  he  makes  to  scrape  along 
on,"  broke  in  the  young  chap,  reaching  for  his  check 
book.  "I'm  still  a  bit  leary  about  three  dollars  a  day 
putting  a  man  in  Rockefeller's  class.  I'll  just  make  it 
three  hundred,  and  that'll  cover  some  of  those  other 
bills  you  spoke  of." 

He  wrote  rapidly  for  a  moment,  blotted  the  check, 
tore  it  out,  and  handed  it  to  his  friend. 

"By  Jove !  This  is  corking  of  you,  John,"  the  latter 
exclaimed.  "Brown  won't  be  able  to  believe  his 
eyes " 

"Cut  it  out,  Mac — do !"  interrupted  Blake,  standing 
up  and  walking  to  the  window.  "You  know  I  can't 
spend  my  allowance,  and  it  would  be  a  great  pity  if  this 
mathematical  genius  should  have  to  make  cans,  or 
whatever  he  does,  all  his  life.  Come  on  and  let's  go 
down  to  Blagdon's  for  lunch.  It's  my  last  day,  and 
I  want  to  enjoy  it  before  I'm  landed  at  school." 

Macdonald  gave  in  at  once  and,  sprucing  himself 
up  a  bit,  joined  Blake  in  the  hall. 

He  was  not  a  little  fond  of  this  young  fellow,  in 


The  Unknown  Benefactor.  89 

spite  of  certain  faults  and  marked  peculiarities.  They 
had  met  two  years  before  in  Pasadena  and,  notwith- 
standing the  difference  in  age,  had  become  good 
friends. 

When  Blake  wrote  that  he  had  decided  to  enter  the 
American  School  of  Athletic  Development,  and  would 
shortly  be  leaving  California  for  that  purpose,  the  doc- 
tor at  once  invited  him  to  visit  at  his  home  in  Cleve- 
land. That  visit  was  now  at  an  end,  to  their  mutual 
regret,  the  young  chap  having  planned  to  leave  by  the 
night  train,  which  would  get  him  to  Bloomfield  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning. 

They  had  lunch  at  Blagdon's,  and  afterward  visited 
the  office  of  Colonel  Snowden,  who  readily  promised 
Blake  to  do  something  for  the  crippled  Brown. 

That  satisfactorily  settled,  they  went  to  a  vaudeville 
show,  had  a  pleasant  supper  together,  and  then  drove 
to  the  station. 

The  train  was  almost  on  the  point  of  departing 
when  Blake,  who  was  standing  on  the  step  saying  a  last 
few  things  to  his  friend,  suddenly  remembered  some- 
thing. 

"Now  don't  go  telling  my  name  to  Brown,"  he  ad- 
monished. "I've  been  awfully  glad  to  help  him  out, 
but  I  don't  want  to  be  overwhelmed  with  thanks  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"But  he'll  want  to  know  who  he's  indebted  to  for 
so  much,"  Macdonald  protested. 

The  train  started  slowly,  and  Blake  leaned  forward, 
holding  fast  to  the  railing. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  retorted.  "I  won't  be  bothered. 
Tell  him  it's  an  'Unknown  Benefactor,'  or  an  'Anony- 


90  The  Unknown  Benefactor. 

mous  Friend.'  That's  the  way  those  things  are  put 
in  the  newspapers." 

Running  along  beside  the  train,  Macdonald  laughed 
in  spite  of  himself. 

"All  right,"  he  called.  "Have  your  own  way.  I 
won't  tell  him.  By-by!  and  don't  forget  to  write." 

"I  won't    Good-by." 

The  train  was  whirled  out  of  sight,  and  the  doctor 
walked  slowly  back  through  the  station. 

"He's  a  dandy  kid,"  he  mused.  "If  only  he  could 
get  rid  of But,  pshaw!  Nobody's  perfect." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

JOHN   HUNTINGDON   BLAKE   ARRIVES. 

The  arrival  of  John  Huntingdon  Blake  at  Farnham 
Hall  created  something  of  a  stir.  Any  boy  showing 
up  late  is  sure  to  receive  more  or  less  attention;  but 
when  he  is  preceded  by  a  number  of  gigantic  crates 
and  boxes,  to  say  nothing  of  several  mammoth  trunks 
of  the  latest  and  most  approved  style,  curiosity  and 
speculation  concerning  who  and  what  he  is  become 
rampant. 

"His  stuff  is  piled  up  in  the  room  so's  you  can 
hardly  walk  around  it,"  announced  one  youth  impor- 
tantly. "I  saw  them  putting  the  boxes  in  there." 

"What's  in  'em  all?"  inquired  another.  "Might 
think  he  was  going  to  furnish  a  whole  house." 

"Maybe  he's  agent  for  some  sporting  goods  house," 
suggested  a  third. 

He  was  laughed  to  scorn;  but  no  one  else  could 
think  of  any  plausible  excuse  for  a  student  having 
such  an  extraordinary  number  of  belongings,  so  they 
had  to  possess  their  souls  in  patience  and  await  the 
owner's  arrival. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  various  contradictory 
stories  as  to  who  he  was  were  bruited  about  in  the 
greatest  profusion.  One  opined  that  his  father  was  a 
great  railroad  magnate,  with  a  winter  home  in  Cali- 
fornia. Another  advanced  the  theory  that  the  elder 
Blake  was  the  owner  of  immense  orange  groves  in 


92         John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives. 

that  State  of  fruit  and  flowers.  Still  a  third,  who  had 
heard  the  name  associated  with  a  famous  brand  of 
pickles,  was  perfectly  certain  that  the  unknown  student 
was  a  scion  of  that  family,  and  that  the  boxes  con- 
tained samples  of  the  various  delectable  preserves  for 
free  distribution  about  the  school.  His  following  was 
decidedly  the  strongest. 

Somehow  the  idea  of  unlimited  pickles  and  jams 
appealed  strongly  to  many. 

"Fattty"  Benkard  positively  drooled  at  the  mouth 
whenever  he  thought  of  it,  and  longed  for  the  speedy 
arrival  of  this  benefactor  of  the  human  stomach. 

When  at  length  John  Huntingdon  Blake  actually 
did  arrive,  the  first  impression  was  something  of  a  dis- 
appointment. The  boys,  dawdling  curiously  around 
Frank  Men-Swell's  office,  saw  a  slim,  well  set  up  youth 
of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  inconspicu- 
ous gray,  a  gray  overcoat,  gray  gloves,  and  a  glossy 
black  derby.  There  seemed  nothing  striking  or  un- 
usual about  him,  nothing  which  savored  of  railroads 
or  oranges,  or — alas ! — pickles. 

But  after  he  had  disappeared  behind  the  office  door 
and  impressions  began  to  sink  in,  they  realized  that 
this  newcomer  was  decidedly  unusual,  after  all.  Few 
of  them  had  ever  seen  a  fellow  of  his  age  so  well 
groomed.  There  was  a  finished  perfection  about  him, 
a  harmony  of  dress  and  appointment,  a  certain  air, 
which  was  most  impressive. 

"He's  a  swell,  all  right,"  commented  Ralph  Shear- 
man, who  came  from  New  York  and  might  be  sup- 
posed to  know. 

"Humph !"  grunted  George  Peterson.     "I  don't  see 


John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives.          93 

anything  swell  about  him.  Why,  that  tie  he  had  on 
wasn't  a  bit  pretty." 

"Maybe  not — according  to  your  taste,"  jibed  Shear- 
man. "But  I'll  bet  it  cost  three  dollars  if  it  cost  a 
cent." 

Benkard's  eyes  widened. 

"Oh,  g'wan!"  he  protested.  "Who  ever  heard  of  a 
tie  costing  three  dollars.  Why,  I  could  buy  a  pair  of 
shoes  for  that." 

"Not  a  pair  like  Blake's,"  Shearman  smiled.  "Nor 
for  three  times  three.  He's  a  swell,  all  right,  whether 
he's  railroads,  or  pickles,  or  nothing  at  all." 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  Frank  Merriwell 
looked  out  into  the  hall. 

"Ah,  Shearman,"  he  said,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
New  York  boy.  "Just  step  in  here  for  a  moment,  will 
you?" 

Shearman  did  so,  with  alacrity,  only  too  thankful  to 
see  something  further  of  the  new  boy.  He  found  the 
latter  standing  beside  a  chair,  over  the  back  of  which 
was  thrown  the  gray  overcoat,  thus  giving  a  glimpse 
of  its  silk  lining. 

Blake  acknowledged  the  introduction  with  perfect 
self-possession,  in  which  there  was  no  trace  of  con- 
descension ;  and  when  Merry  asked  Shearman  to  show 
the  newcomer  over  the  school  a  little,  and  lend  him  a 
hand  if  necessary  in  opening  his  boxes,  he  was  even 
slightly  apologetic  for  the  trouble  he  was  causing. 

"I  really  don't  need  any  help,"  he  said.  "If  I  can 
have  a  hammer  or  something  to  open  them  with,  I'll 
get  along  all  right  alone." 


94         John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives. 

"It  isn't  a  bit  of  trouble,"  Shearman  protested 
hastily.  "I'd  just  as  soon  do  it  as  not." 

Which  was  perfectly  true,  though  Ralph  was  not 
specially  noted  for  his  eagerness  to  do  things  for 
others.  The  present  case,  however,  was  an  excep- 
tion. Not  for  anything  would  he  miss  this  chance 
of  getting  ahead  of  the  others  and  being  the  first  to 
find  out  just  what  the  much-discussed  cases  and  boxes 
contained. 

A  moment  later,  the  two  boys  emerged  into  the 
hall. 

Shearman  led  his  companion  swiftly  toward  the 
stairs,  regardless  of  the  general  forward  movement 
of  the  curious  boys.  His  maneuver  was  successful. 
He  hurried  Blake  along,  followed  by  envious  glances 
from  the  youths  who  had  expected  an  introduction. 

"Which  do  you  want  to  do  first — look  the  place 
over,  or  unpack?"  he  asked,  stopping  at  the  first  cor- 
ridor. 

"Unpack,"  Blake  declared  unhesitatingly.  "I  can't 
settle  down  comfortably  till  my  things  are  straight- 
ened out.  I  can  see  the  school  any  time." 

This  suited  Shearman  admirably.  The  role  of 
guide  did  not  appeal  to  him,  and,  if  he  had  judged  cor- 
rectly, by  the  time  the  newcomer's  baggage  was  un- 
packed and  the  boxes  opened,  the  inspection  of  the 
school  would  have  to  be  put  off  to  another  time. 

"That's  fine,"  he  returned.  "I'll  get  a  hammer  and 
chisel  from  Snoopy.  He  has  'em  in  his  room.  Where 
are  you  booked  for?  What  corridor,  I  mean." 

Blake  consulted  a  piece  of  paper  Merriwell  had 
given  him. 


John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives.         95 

"South  corridor,  second  floor,"  he  read.  "The 
room  is  sixteen." 

Shearman  sighed  a  bit  enviously. 

"You're  in  luck,"  he  commented.  "That's  the  best 
corridor  in  the  school." 

"Best  rooms,  you  mean?" 

"N-o,  not  specially.  All  the  rooms  are  pretty  much 
alike,  with  a  few  exceptions.  But  the  best  fellows 
are  in  that  corridor.  Phillips  and  Shasta  and  the  rest 
of  the  football  bunch.  You  play?" 

"Now  and  then,"  returned  Blake.  "I  suppose  it's 
too  late  to  do  anything  at  it  now." 

"Just  about,"  Shearman  agreed,  turning  the  corner 
into  the  south  corridor.  "Regular  and  scrub  are  both 
made  up,  though  if  you're  a  wonder  you'd  stand  a 
chance  of  being  put  on." 

"I'm  not  that  at  all,"  Blake  laughed.  "I've  never 
done  very  much  at  it.  Tennis  and  horseback  riding 
appeal  to  me  more  as  exercises." 

Shearman,  who  had  never  been  on  a  horse  in  his 
life,  was  instantly  in  as  perfect  accord  with  his  new 
friend  as  if  he  owned  a  stableful. 

"Finest  sport  going,"  he  agreed.  "I  always  do  it 
when  I'm  home.  Well,  here's  sixteen.  Got  your 
key?" 

The  room  was  fairly  large,  with  two  windows,  and 
an  alctfve  for  the  bed;  but  it  was  choked  with  the 
boxes,  crates,  and  trunks  which  filled  it. 

Blake  looked  around  in  dismay. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  murmured.  "I  had  no  idea  I'd 
sent  so  much.  What  in  the  world  will  I  do  with  it 
all?" 


96         John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives? 

Not  knowing  what  "it"  was,  Ralph  could  offer  no 
suggestions;  but  he  hastened  off  at  once  to  borrow 
hammer  and  chisel  from  the  tutor,  on  the  floor  above. 
When  he  returned,  Blake  had  shed  coat  and  vest, 
thus  exposing  a  silk  shirt  with  an  elaborate  mono- 
gram on  the  left  cuff,  and  a  more  extended  view  of 
the  quite,  but  very  costly,  scarf. 

Shearman  wasted  little  time  in  their  examination. 
He  was  more  interested  in  the  boxes,  which  he  at- 
tacked with  a  vigor  and  enthusiasm  that  would  have 
surprised  those  who  knew  him  well. 

The  contents  of  the  first  one  to  be  revealed  was 
a  picture.  It  was  rather  large,  and  looked  decidedly 
old.  On  standing  it  carefully  against  the  wall,  it  was 
seen  to  be  a  portrait  in  oils  of  an  imposing-looking  old 
man  in  some  sort  of  uniform,  bearing  a  row  of  medals 
and  orders  on  his  breast. 

"Admiral  Blake,"  the  new  boy  explained  casually. 
"One  of  my  ancestors  who  lived  back  in  sixteen  hun- 
dred. The  portrait's  been  handed  down  in  our 
family." 

Shearman  looked  blank,  and  made  no  comment  as 
he  attacked  the  next  box.  It,  likewise,  proved  to  be 
a  portrait — Lady  Constance  Blake,  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Talbot,  who,  it  appeared,  was  a  daughter-in- 
law  of  the  admiral. 

Perspiring  freely,  and  growing  more  and  more  dis- 
appointed, Shearman  successively  brought  to  light  Sir 
Guy  Blake,  governor  of  Bermuda;  General  John 
Blake,  one  of  Washington's  staff  during  the  Revolu- 
tion; and  John  Huntingdon  Blake,  secretary  of  state 
under  one  of  the  early  presidents. 


John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives.         97 

The  owner  of  all  these  ancestors  explained  them 
in  a  casually  indifferent  manner,  as  if  such  things 
were  a  matter  of  course,  a  tone  which  was  distinctly 
trying  to  a  youth  who  had  never  assayed  to  climb 
farther  into  the  family  tree  than  the  sturdy  branch 
represented  by  his  paternal  grandfather,  a  sagacious 
farmer,  who  had  bought  land  in  Brooklyn  during  the 
fifties  and  sold  it  forty  years  later  at  an  increase  of 
some  three  thousand  per  cent. 

Besides  the  ancestors,  there  were  several  other 
smaller  pictures,  quantities  of  photographs,  all  sorts 
of  small  furnishings  which  add  attractiveness  to  a 
boy's  room,  and  a  great  many  books. 

In  the  trunks,  which  Blake  was  busily  emptying, 
were  clothes,  more  clothes,  and  then  some. 

To  Shearman's  dazed  senses  it  seemed  as  if  there 
must  have  been  twenty  suits,  and  at  least  that  many 
pair  of  shoes,  while  shirts,  neckties,  and  the  like  were 
to  be  counted  by  dozens  instead  of  singly. 

One  thing  was  evident:  Whether  Blake  was  rail- 
roads or  orange  groves  or  pickles,  he  certainly  had 
money  to  burn;  and  Ralph  made  up  his  mind  on  the 
spot  that  if  there  was  any  cremations  of  that  descrip- 
tion going  on  he  would  do  his  best  to  help  along  the 
conflagration. 

When  everything  was  unpacked  and  unboxed,  the 
room  leoked  as  if  a  cyclone  had  struck  it. 

"You'll  have  a  time  getting  things  straightened 
out,"  Shearman  ventured. 

"It  won't  be  so  bad,  once  all  these  boxes  and  things 
are  cleared  up,"  Blake  returned  cheerfully.  "I  sup- 
pose there's  a  man  around  the  place  who'll  do  it?" 


98         John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives. 

Shearman  looked  doubtful.  There  were  several 
men  who  looked  after  furnaces  and  did  other  chores 
around  the  school,  but  they  were  not  supposed  to  be 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  every  boy  who  wanted  his 
room  cleared  up. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  returned.  "They  don't 
usually " 

"Pshaw!"  laughed  Blake  carelessly.  "They'll  do 
anything  for  a  couple  of  dollars.  If  you're  going 
down,  would  you  mind  asking  some  one  to  step  up 
right  away?" 

Stifling  an  impulse  to  offer  to  undertake  the  job 
himself  for  that  munificent  reward,  Shearman  acqui- 
esced and  left  the  room  with  some  reluctance. 

He  disliked,  on  principle,  letting  go  the  slight  hold 
he  held  on  the  new  boy  by  virtue  of  the  help  he 
had  rendered  him;  and  he  was  anxious  to  make  plans 
for  their  further  acquaintance.  Blake,  however,  while 
thanking  him  cordially  for  what  he  had  done,  dex- 
terously evaded  anything  in  the  nature  of  an  entangle- 
ment; and  Ralph  was  obliged  to  depart  in  a  some- 
what disgruntled  frame  of  mind. 

Turning  the  corner  into  the  central  corridor,  he 
ran  into  his  cronies  grouped  around  the  stairs,  and 
was  instantly  stopped. 

"Well?"  inquired  Peterson  curiously. 

"Did  you  find  out  what's  in  'em?"  put  in  another 
eagerly. 

"Are  they  pickles?"  demanded  Fatty  Benkard,  his 
eyes  distended  and  mouth  fairly  watering  at  the 
thought. 

Shearman's  lips  curled. 


John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives.         95 

"Pickles!"  he  snapped.  "I  should  say  not!  They're 
mostly  ancestors." 

There  was  an  impressive  pause. 

"Aunt's  sisters?"  gasped  Benkard,  his  jaw  drop- 
ping. 

"No,  you  fathead!"  retorted  Shearman.  "Ances- 
tors. Pictures  of  his  great  grandfathers,  and  all  that. 
He's  got  bunches  of  'em." 

There  was  another  pause,  fraught  with  consider- 
able emotion. 

"Is  his  father  the  orange  king?"  finally  ventured 
one  disappointedly. 

"He  didn't  say,"  Ralph  returned.  "But  I'll  tell  you 
this  much,  fellows:  He's  got  the  coin,  all  right — • 
wads  and  wads  of  it.  You  ought  to  see  his  clothes. 
Trunks  full  of  suits  and  shoes  and  everything.  The 
closet's  stuffed  so's  you  couldn't  squeeze  another  thing 
in  if  you  tried.  What's  more,  he's  going  to  give  Sour 
Ball  two  dollars  for  taking  the  rubbish  and  empty 
trunks  downstairs." 

Instantly  there  was  an  indignant  stir.  "Sour  Ball" 
was  the  euphonious  cognomen  which  had  been  be- 
stowed upon  one  Higgins,  head  janitor,  and  the 
thought  of  all  that  money  being  wasted  on  the  hated 
being  was  heart-rending. 

"Two  dollars!"  gasped  Peterson.  "Why  the  mis- 
chief didn't  you  offer  to  do  it  yourself,  Ralph?" 

"Sure!"  echoed  Benkard  excitedly.  "We— we'll 
help  you." 

Shearman  scowled. 

"You're  welcome  to  make  the  offer  yourselves,"  he 
retorted.  "I  know  I  won't.  He's  got  a — er — well, 


loo       John  Huntington  Blake  Arrives. 

a  way  about  him  that  didn't  encourage  a  chap.  I'd 
be  willing  to  bet  he'd  thank  you,  and  then  not  shell 
out" 

"A  tightwad?"  demanded  Peterson,  with  a  frown. 

"N-o.  I  don't  think  he's  that.  I've  got  an  idea  he 
might  think  he  was  insulting  you  by  offering  money." 

"Too  bad,"  murmured  Peterson,  his  face  falling. 
"Well,  we  won't  risk  it,  then.  I'd  fall  dead  if  I  had 
to  tote  that  stuff  downstairs  for  nothing.  Better  run 
along  after  Sour  Ball,  Ralph.  We'll  have  to  dope 
out  some  other  scheme  for  separating  that  swell  from 
the  dough." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   MATTER   OF   ANCESTORS. 

The  separation  of  John  Huntingdon  Blake  from  his 
surplus  cash  did  not  prove  to  be  such  an  easy  matter. 
From  the  first,  Shearman  had  doubts  on  the  subject. 
During  his  brief  acquaintance  with  the  new  boy  he 
had  seized  him  up  as  a  chap  who  would  be  anything 
but  an  easy  mark;  and  that  impression  was  strength- 
ened with  the  passing  of  time. 

Blake  was  anything  but  niggardly.  He  did  not  fling 
his  money  about  in  a  reckless,  haphazard  manner,  but 
he  was  always  ready  to  treat  his  friends  at  the  gen- 
eral store,  to  help  them  out  with  loans  when  they  were 
hard  up,  or  share  with  them  in  any  way  whatever 
the  advantage  his  extremely  large  allowance  gave 
him. 

Unfortunately  for  Shearman  and  Peterson  and 
most  of  their  crowd,  they  were  not  included  in  the  new 
boy's  circle  of  intimates.  Quietly,  but  with  firmness 
of  purpose  rather  unusual  in  one  of  his  age,  Blake 
preceded  to  make  friends  with  only  the  fellows  who 
pleased  his  fastidious  taste,  eliminating  all  others  in 
a  manner  which  was  positively  masterful. 

He  was  never  rude,  but  he  had  a  way  which  was 
unmistakable  of  showing  a  boy  that  he  did  not  meas- 
ure up  to  the  required  standard.  That  standard  was 
family,  though  a  good  many  fellows  did  not  realize 
it  for  some  time. 


IO2  A  Matter  of  Ancestors. 

It  was  a  fact,  nevertheless.  Unless  a  boy  was  of 
good  birth  and  had  ancestors  behind  him,  he  was 
forced  to  remain  on  the  outskirts  without  even  having 
the  consolation  of  knowing  just  why  he  had  failed  to 
make  good. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  indeed  for  most  fel- 
lows thus  to  pick  and  choose,  and  Blake  would  never 
have  succeeded  had  he  been  possessed  of  breeding  and 
money  alone. 

Boys,  as  a  rule,  care  nothing  about  family  trees. 
Their  standard  is  usually  accomplishment.  They 
judge  by  what  a  chap  has  done,  or  what  he  is. 

They  might  have  been  a  little  impressed  by  the  show 
made  by  John  Huntingdon  Blake.  They  would  possibly 
have  felt  some  slight  degree  of  envy  at  the  sight  of  a 
fellow  possessed  of  no  less  than  eight  different  suits 
of  clothes  and  a  dozen  pairs  of  shoes,  with  the  re- 
mainder of  his  wardrobe  in  proportion.  It  was  quite 
likely  that  many  sighed  at  the  thought  of  what  it  mast 
be  like  to  have  an  unlimited  supply  of  money  and  be 
accountable  to  no  one  in  the  expenditure  thereof.  But 
these  things  alone  could  never  in  the  world  insure  their 
liking. 

Happily  for  Blake,  he  possessed  a  charm  of  man- 
ner which  was  almost  irresistible.  When  he  chose  to 
exert  himself,  he  proved  so  pleasant  and  agreeable 
that  he  was  voted  instantly  to  be  a  good  sort,  though 
he  did  have  rather  finicky  ideas  about  ancestors,  and 
was  enormously,  disgustingly  wealthy. 

It  thus  happened  that  he  progressed  rapidly  along 
the  lines  he  had  laid  out,  and  before  long  had  become 


A  Matter  of  Ancestors.  103 

on  intimate  terms  with  all  the  fellows  he  considered 
worth  having  as  friends. 

His  location  in  South  Corridor  was  a  great  ad- 
vantage, for  here  roomed  many  of  the  nicest  chaps  in 
school.  He  speedily  became  almost  chummy  with 
Gavin  Minturn,  who  had  the  tower  room,  and  had 
furnished  it  with  a  taste  quite  equal  to  Blake's.  Then 
there  was  Jim  Phillips,  captain  of  the  eleven,  who  was 
from  his  own  home  State,  though  the  two  had  never 
happened  to  hear  of  each  other  before.  Big,  quiet 
Garrett  Strawbridge,  from  Boston,  was  another.  And 
though  Strawbridge  had  never  paid  but  slight  atten- 
tion to  his  family  tree  before,  Blake's  interest  in  the 
matter  induced  him  to  write  a  letter  of  inquiry  which 
caused  no  little  surprise  and  amusement  among  the 
home  circle.  In  their  reply,  however,  they  were  able 
to  assure  him  that  he  numbered  among  his  forbears 
several  Revolutionary  generals,  a  colonial  governor, 
and  one  of  the  Mayflower  passengers. 

"Though  why  this  sudden  interest,  we  are  unable 
to  fathom,"  his  mother  wrote.  "People  of  our  sort 
usually  take  those  things  for  granted,  don't  they?" 

In  addition  to  the  good  qualities  already  mentioned, 
Blake  proved  himself  to  be  accomplished  in  rather  un- 
usual ways.  He  played  an  almost  invincible  game 
of  tennis.  Early  in  his  stay,  he  inquired  of  Frank 
Merriwell  about  the  hiring  of  a  riding  horse,  and,  dis- 
covering that  the  boy  was  a  splendid  horseman,  Merry 
allowed  him  the  run  of  the  stable.  The  privilege  was 
never  abused,  for  Blake  knew  all  about  horses,  and 
was  able  to  handle  with  ease  the  most  spirited  mount. 

He  had  a  good  voice,  and  could  play  both  the  man- 


104  A  Matter  of  Ancestors. 

dolin  and  the  guitar  well.  His  fund  of  amusing 
stories  seemed  inexhaustible,  and,  taken  all  in  all,  he 
was  voted  a  distinct  addition  to  the  school.  His  room 
became  a  sort  of  center  where  fellows  dropped  in  at 
all  hours,  sure  that  there  would  be  something  doing. 

It  thus  happened  that,  on  a  certain  rainy  after- 
noon, when  even  football  practice  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, quite  a  crowd  had  assembled  there.  They  were 
mostly  of  the  elite,  though  one  or  two  outsiders  had 
blundered  in,  and  were  being  subjected  to  the  delicate, 
but  extremely  effective,  freezing-out  process  which 
Blake  did  not  hesitate  to  practice  on  those  of  whom  he 
did  not  approve. 

Chief  among  them  to-day  was  a  certain  "Red" 
Moran,  big,  robust,  with  the  temper  which  usually  ac- 
companies a  florid  complexion.  That  temper  was,  in 
fact,  what  had  barred  him  from  the  football  team; 
for  it  was  hot,  and  quite  without  control,  and  was 
accompanied  by  other  unpleasant  qualities,  such  as 
brag  and  bluster,  and — some  said — the  tendencies  of 
a  bully. 

Just  why  he  should  have  shown  up  here  to-day  was 
a  problem.  He  was  sore  on  most  of  the  crowd  be- 
cause of  his  rejection  by  Phillips,  captain  of  the  team, 
and  he  was  not  at  all  the  sort  of  fellow  to  be  attracted 
by  John  Blake.  Very  likely  it  was  sheer  perversity 
of  spirit,  the  sort  ot  thing  which  makes  a  man  butt  in 
where  he  knows  well  enough  he  is  not  wanted.  And, 
having  once  come  unasked  and  unwelcoined,  he  at 
once  proceeded  to  make  himself  as  disagreeable  as 
possible. 

Having  inspected  everything  in  the  room  in  that 


A  Matter  of  Ancestors.  105 

contemptuous,  half -tolerant  manner  which  is  irritat- 
ing, he  paused  before  the  portrait  of  Admiral  Blake, 
and  stood  contemplating  it,  both  hands  in  his  pockets, 
swaying  gently  back  and  forth  on  his  heels. 

"Who's  this  old  geezer,  Blake?"  he  inquired  pres- 
ently, in  a  sneering  tone. 

Blake  glanced  over  from  where  he  was  sitting  on 
the  window  seat,  strumming  a  guitar. 

"That  happens  to  be  one  of  my  ancestors,"  he  re- 
turned quietly. 

He  had  explained  the  relationship  not  long  before 
to  one  of  the  other  boys,  and  he  knew  Moran  had 
heard  him  then.  Nevertheless,  his  face  showed  noth- 
ing of  the  annoyance  he  felt  at  the  fellow's  manner. 

Moran  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Homely-looking  guy,"  he  commented. 

"That's  a  matter  of  opinion,"  Blake  answered,  strik- 
ing a  chord  or  two  on  his  mandolin.  "Perhaps  your 
own  are  tetter  looking." 

Moran's  face  flushed.  The  only  ancestor  he  knew 
anything  about  was  a  father  in  the  contracting  busi- 
ness in  Chicago,  who  could  neither  read  nor  write, 
though  he  had  succeeded  in  amassing  considerable 
money  by  his  native  shrewdness. 

"Maybe  they  are,"  Red  retorted.  "But  I  don't  have 
any  use  for  'em." 

Blake  stifled  a  smile  with  poor  success. 

"In-deed!"  he  commented  blandly. 

He  could  convey  a  vast  deal  of  expression  and 
meaning  in  a  few  words,  and  Moran's  flush  deepened 
at  the  other's  tone. 


io6  K  Matter  ol  Ancestors. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  'em,  and  I  don't  want 
to  know,"  he  snapped. 

Blake  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Really?"  he  queried.  "I  hope  there's  nothing 
wrong  about  them?" 

There  was  a  covert  sarcasm  in  his  voice  which 
made  the  hot-tempered  chap  turn  swiftly  on  him, 
with  a  fierce  scowl. 

'The  fact  that  you've  got  a  lot  of  chromos  like  that 
hanging  around  don't  make  you  a  scrap  better  than 
I  am,"  he  exclaimed  angrily. 

"Did  I  say  I  was?"  Blake  inquired  calmly. 

It  was  an  absurdly  trivial  thing  to  lose  his  temper 
about,  but  Moran's  control  was  very  slight,  and  he 
lost  it  altogether  on  the  least  provocation.  Blake's 
manner  was  also  unquestionably  irritating.  It  was 
not  so  much  what  he  said  as  the  way  in  which  he  said 
it  that  made  every  word  sting. 

"Maybe  you  didn't  say  so,  but  it's  what  you  think?" 
Moran  rasped. 

"Ye-es?  Getting  to  be  quite  a  mind  reader,  aren't 
you?" 

Moran  took  a  step  or  two  forward,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"Mind  reader  or  not,  it's  true!"  he  snapped. 
"Every  minute  I've  been  in  this  room  you've  been  act- 
ing as  if  I  wasn't  good  enough  to  wipe  your  feet  on. 
If  that's " 

"Just  a  minute,"  Blake  interrupted  calmly.  "Did 
I  ask  you  to  come  into  this  room?" 

"Maybe  you  didn't!"  retorted  the  angry  chap.  "I 
didn't  know  you  was  such  a  great  piece  of  work  that 
a  fellow  had  to  get  written  permission  to  come  in  here. 


A  Matter  of  Ancestors.  107 

Now  that  I  know,  you  won't  catch  me  here  again,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"Charmed,  I'm  sure,"  murmured  Blake,  in  a  tone 
which  made  Don  Shasta,  quarter  back  on  the  team, 
grin  suddenly. 

That  grin  was  in  the  nature  of  a  last  straw.  Like 
most  dictatorial  persons,  Moran  hated,  above  every- 
thing else,  to  be  laughed  at.  He  knew  himself  to  be 
in  the  wrong;  but  that  was  lost  sight  of  in  the  wrath 
that  assailed  him  at  this  fresh  insult. 

"I'll  show  you  who's  the  best  man,"  he  frothed, 
springing  forward  and  doubling  his  fists.  "Just  stand 
up  here  for  five  minutes  and  I'll  larrup  the  hide  off 
you." 

Blake  did  not  stir  a  muscle.  With  one  hand,  he 
continued  to  pick  out  a  soft  air  on  the  mandolin.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  fearlessly  on  the  heavy,  square,  in- 
flamed countenance  of  the  contractor's  son.  The  other 
fellows,  all  agog  with  interest,  watched  him  admir- 
ingly. 

"You  want  to  fight?"  he  asked  coolly. 

"What  in  time  do  you  think  I  was  after?"  de- 
manded the  other  fiercely. 

"I  wasn't  quite  sure,"  Blake  murmured.  "You  act 
as  if  you  were  just  a  little  off  your  head." 

Moran  choked  apoplectically. 

"Will  you  put  up  your  fists?"  he  roared;  "or  do 
you  want  me  to  make  you?" 

Blake's  face  underwent  a  curious  change.  The  eyes 
narrowed  ominously,  and  the  muscles  of  his  jaw 
seemed  to  harden. 

"Neither !"  he  retorted  crisply,  rising  to  his  feet  so 


io8  A  Matter  of  Ancestors. 

suddenly  that  Moran  stepped  back  instinctively. 
""Kindly  leave  the  room." 

"You  won't  fight?"  Moran  gasped  incredulously. 

"I  will  not — here." 

"You  coward!    You — you " 

"That  will  do  for  you,"  Blake  interrupted,  in  an 
icy  voice.  "If  you're  so  set  on  it,  I'll  meet  you  in  the 
gym  any  time  to-morrow  you  like.  In  the  meantime, 
be  good  enough  to  leave  this  room." 

"You " 

"Leave  the  room!" 

Moran  hesitated,  glaring  at  this  extraordinary  youth 
in  helpless  rage.  Then,  moved  by  he  knew  not  what 
impulse,  he  whirled  around  and  strode  to  the  door. 

"I'll  be  in  the  gym  at  five  to-morrow,"  he  rasped. 
"If  you're  not  there " 

"Oh,  I'll  be  there,"  interrupted  Blake  wearily.  "I 
do  wish  you  would  go  away  and  leave  us  in  peace." 

Without  another  word,  Moran  jerked  open  the  door, 
dashed  out,  and  slammed  it  behind  him. 

Blake  stepped  forward  and  replaced  a  photograph 
•which  had  been  dislodged  from  the  bookshelf.  As  he 
turned  back  to  the  group  around  the  window,  his  face 
expressed  nothing  but  polite  regret. 

"I'm  beastly  sorry  this  happened,"  he  said.  "But 
with  a  person  like  that,  what  can  you  do?" 


'CHAPTER  XV. 

AN   UNINTENDED   SLUR. 

No  one  spoke  for  a  moment  or  two,  but  several 
pairs  of  eyes  were  fixed  curiously  on  the  new  boy. 
Was  he  really  as  nonchalant  as  he  seemed,  or  was 
he  throwing  a  magnificent,  colossal  bluff  ? 

''Don't  mind  us,"  Shasta  hastened  to  assure  him, 
the  next  instant.  "I'm  only  a  bit  sorry  you've  got 
mixed  up  with  Moran.  For  all  his  brag  and  bluster, 
that  tarrier  is  pretty  smooth  with  his  fists." 

Blake  smiled  a  little  as  he  picked  up  the  mandolin 
and  resumed  his  seat.  If  he  were  bluffing,  he  cer- 
tainly had  wonderful  nerves. 

"I  should  imagine  he  might  be,"  he  commented,  al- 
most indifferently.  "He  has  the  look  of  a  boxer.  I 
don't  suppose  he's  anything  to  be  afraid  of,  though. 
'A  chap  who  loses  his  temper  that  easy  doesn't  usually 
last  long  in  a  bout." 

Phillips  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"He's  got  a  tremendous  reach  and  the  strength  of  a 
bull,"  he  commented.  "Besides,  there's  nothing  the 
matter  with  his  science,  either." 

Blake  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Still,  his  temper  is  a  big  handicap,"  he  objected. 

"Maybe  so;  but  unless  you  box — you  do  box,  don't 
you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  more  or  less,"  returned  Blake  indiffer- 
ently. "But  let's  change  the  subject  I  haven't  any 


no  An  Unintended  Slur. 

use  for  a  fellow  like  that,  who's  common  as  they  make 
them,  and  is  all  the  time  thrusting  his  way  in  where 
he  isn't  wanted.  I  could  never  agree  with  the  state- 
ment in  the  Declaration  of  Independence  which  says 
that  all  men  are  created  equal.  They're  not — they  can't 
be.  Moran  is  a  perfect  example  of  the  falsity  of  it. 
He  can't  trace  his  family  any  farther  back  than  his 
grandfather,  I'd  be  willing  to  bet.  He's  common  and 
ordinary,  and  the  fact  sticks  out  all  over  him  and 
shows  up  in  everything  he  does.  Why  a  fellow  who 
had " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  a  look  of  annoyance 
flashed  across  his  face.  From  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  where  he  had  been  sitting  out  of  sight  and  for- 
gotten behind  a  table  laden  with  books  and  a  shaded 
reading  lamp,  arose  the  second  uninvited  member  of 
the  party,  a  tall,  thin,  awkward  youth  of  sixteen, 
clothed  in  shabby,  decidedly  ill-fitting  garments. 

His  face  was  flushed  scarlet,  and,  as  he  came  slowly 
forward,  he  bit  his  lips. 

"I — think  I'll  be  going — now,"  he  stammered,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  John  Huntingdon  Blake. 

The  latter's  cheeks  were  faintly  pink,  and  there 
was  a  look  very  like  embarrassment  on  his  face. 

"I'd — er — forgotten  you  were  here — a — Brown,"  he 
returned,  with  an  attempt  at  lightness.  "You  were  so 
quiet,  you  know,  that  I  thought  you'd  slipped  off  be- 
fore." 

"No,"  said  Brown,  somewhat  stiffly.  "I've  been 
sitting  right  there." 

He  emphasized  the  last  words  slightly,  and  then, 


An  Unintended  Slur.  Ill 

without  further  delay,  departed,  closing  the  door  care- 
fully behind  him. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  which  was  broken 
by  Blake. 

"Hang  it  all!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 
"I  had  no  idea  he  was  there.  I  thought  he'd  gone  long 
ago." 

"So  did  I,"  Shasta  agreed.  "That  lamp  shade  cov- 
ered him  up  completely." 

"Who  is  he,  anyhow,  John?"  Phillips  inquired. 
"Friend  of  yours?  I  haven't  seen  him  around  be- 
fore." 

Blake  smiled  in  whimsical  annoyance. 

"Nor  I,  until  this  morning,"  he  said.  "I  have  a 
notion  he's  just  come.  He  has  the  look.  We  sat 
together  in  history  this  morning,  and  I  spoke  to  him 
because  he  seemed  to  look  so  sort  of  lonely  and  out  of 
place.  If  I'd  had  the  least  idea  he  would  show  up 
here  this  afternoon  I'd  have  kept  my  mouth  shut." 

"He  doesn't  seem  such  an  awful  bad  sort,"  put  in 
Strawbridge.  "Outgrown  his  clothes,  and  all  that,  but 
he  hasn't  a  bad  face." 

Blake  laughed,  and  strummed  a  bit  on  the  mandolin. 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  agreed.  "But  neither  is  he  thrill- 
ingly  interesting.  Worst  of  all,  his  name  is — Brown." 

"Not  very  distinctive,  I'll  admit,"  Phillips  remarked, 
rather"  seriously.  "There  are  some  very  nice  Browns, 
however." 

"Of  course.  But  I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  belong  to 
that  branch  of  the  family.  Just  the  same,  I'm  blamed 
sorry  I  didn't  see  him  over  there.  I  hate  to  hurt  a 
fellow's  feelings  deliberately,  and  I'm  afraid  he  was 


112  An  Unintended  Slur. 

hurt  at  what  I  was  saying  about  Moran.  The  two 
aren't  in  the  same  class  at  all,  but  this  chap  looks  as 
if  he  came  from  a  middle-class  family,  and,  from  his 
expression,  I  imagine  he  must  have  taken  what  I  said 
about  Moran  to  be  aimed  at  him,  too." 

Shasta  yawned. 

"Oh,  well,  what's  the  odds?"  he  said  carelessly. 
"Life's  too  short  to  waste  time  on  people  you  don't 
care  a  snap  about,  and  never  will,  and  I  shouldn't  say 
Brown  was  your  kind  at  all." 

Blake  smiled  a  little,  and  struck  a  chord  or  two  on 
the  mandolin.  His  eyes  were  still  serious,  however. 

"I  don't  imagine  so,  either,"  he  agreed.  "Still,  Fin 
sorry  if  his  feelings  are  hurt." 

"He'll  get  over  it."  Shasta  shrugged.  "What  about 
this  fight  with  Red  Moran?  That's  a  heap  more  in- 
teresting. Do  you  really  think  you  can  lick  him, 
John?" 

Blake  laughed. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  returned  lightly.  "I've 
never  seen  him  with  the  gloves  on." 

"I  wish  we  could  be  there,"  the  quarter  back  said 
regretfully.  "Can't  you  put  it  off  till  after  practice?" 

"Surely,"  Blake  smiled.  "Anything  to  be  agree- 
able. I  hereby  tender  all  present  an  invitation  to  the 
affair.  Only  you  mustn't  expect  anything  wonderful, 
you  know." 

They  accepted,  with  alacrity,  and  promised  to  hustle 
over  to  the  gym  the  minute  practice  was  over,  Phillips 
even  saying  that  he  would  finish  a  bit  earlier,  if  he 
could.  There  was  a  little  more  laughter  and  joshing, 


An  Unintended  Slur.  113 

and  then  they  trailed  out  of  the  room  to  wash  up  for 
supper. 

After  they  had  gone,  Blake  lit  the  lamps,  and,  lean- 
ing against  the  table,  stared  up  at  the  painted  visage 
of  Admiral  Blake.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  there, 
his  face  as  inscrutable  and  his  eyes  as  unwavering  as 
those  of  his  illustrious  ancestor. 

At  last  he  gave  a  sigh,  and  turned  away.  Perhaps 
he  was  thinking  with  indignation  of  the  uncalled-for 
manner  in  which  the  lowborn  Moran  had  insulted  the 
dead-and-gone  worthy  of  Charles  the  First's  time. 
Perhaps  he  was  regretting  his  own  unintentional  hu- 
miliation of  the  plebeian  Brown.  Whether  either  of 
these  things  was  in  his  mind,  or  something  quite  dif- 
ferent, it  was  impossible  to  say. 

At  all  events,  he  sighed. 


"CHAPTER  XVI. 

GEORGE     BROWN. 

George  Brown  hurried  down  the  corridor  from 
Blake's  room,  his  face  flaming  and  his  lips  pressed 
tightly  together  to  keep  back  the  torrent  of  indigna- 
tion which  was  ready  to  burst  forth. 

"He's  a  cad!"  he  muttered  between  his  clenched 
teeth,  as  he  rounded  the  corner  and  started  up  to  his 
own  floor.  "He  said  it  on  purpose.  He  knew  all  the 
time  that  I  was  in  the  room.  He's  a  beastly  cad !" 

The  blow  came  all  the  harder  because,  in  the  class- 
room, Blake  had  really  been  very  nice  to  him.  He  had 
been  feeling  homesick  and  lonely,  for  he  was  not  a 
boy  who  made  friends  quickly,  and  he  had  arrived  only 
that  morning. 

There  had  been  the  usual  critical  inspection  of  him 
by  various  boys  in  the  hallways  and  other  places  where 
little  knots  gathered  at  odd  times,  but  Blake  was  the 
first  one  to  speak  pleasantly  to  him,  and  brace  him  up. 

Until  a  little  while  ago,  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  that  he  was  doing  anything  out  of  the  way  in 
going  to  the  room  that  afternoon.  The  day  was  rainy, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  do  anything  out  of  doors,  so 
he  had  fancied  it  perfectly  natural  that  he  should  run 
up  to  see  the  fellow  who  had  been  so  decent  and  who 
had  seemed  so  friendly. 

The  appearance  of  the  room  awed  him  a  little,  for 
be  was  quite  unaccustomed  to  the  elegancies  of  life. 


George  Brown. 

The  fellows  who  were  gathered  there  were  also  a  bit 
bewildering.  Short  as  was  the  time  since  his  arrival, 
he  had  had  the  captain  of  the  eleven  pointed  out  as 
one  of  the  big  men.  He  also  knew  the  quarter  back 
by  sight,  and  to  meet  them  thus  was  a  trifle  flustering. 

It- was  not,  however,  until  the  blustering  entrance 
of  Red  Moran  that  Brown  began  to  feel  doubts  as 
to  what  he  had  done.  He  was  no  fool,  and  not  one 
of  the  veiled  remarks  uttered  so  lightly  and  uncon- 
cernedly by  his  host  escaped  him.  Moran  himself, 
against  whom  they  were  leveled,  did  not  understand 
half  of  them,  but  Brown  was  not  so  slow-witted. 

Sitting  behind  the  table,  whither  he  had  retired  al- 
most at  once,  he  heard  and  fathomed  the  purpose  be- 
hind those  words.  He  realized,  also — vaguely  at  first, 
but  with  rapidly  increasing  clearness — the  point  of 
view  of  the  chap  he  had  liked  in  the  classroom  that 
morning.  Bit  by  bit  he  pieced  together  a  complete 
whole,  and  as  he  patched  he  grew  more  and  more 
bitter. 

He  did  not  quite  approve  of  Moran's  blustering, 
chip-on-the-shoulder  attitude.  Intuitively  he  felt  that 
it  was  not  good  manners,  nor  even  ordinarily  decent, 
to  go  into  a  fellow's  room  and  criticize  the  furnish- 
ings of  it,  to  say  nothing  of  the  chap  himself.  And 
yet,  all  the  time  he  had  sympathized  with  the  intruder. 
Blake's  "freezing-out"  policy  had  been  so  evident  from 
the  very  first  that  Brown  felt  that  the  red-haired  youth 
would  have  been  more  than  human  not  to  resent  it. 

"Blake  showed,  from  the  very  minute  Moran  came 
in,  that  he  thought  himself  the  better  man,"  the  hu- 
miliated boy  said  aloud,  after  he  had  reached  his 


Ii6  George  Brown. 

room.  "I  shouldn't  blame  any  one  for  getting  mad 
and  wanting  to  fight,  especially  any  one  with  as  little 
self-control  as  Red.  I'd  like  to  fight  him  myself,  for 
he  meant  it  all  for  me,  too,  though  he  tried  to  throw 
the  bluff  that  he'd  forgotten  I  was  in  the  room." 

He  took  a  stride  or  two  across  the  room,  his  face  still 
flushed  and  indignant. 

"He  isn't  a  bit  better  tha/i  either  of  us,"  he  re- 
sumed, a  moment  later.  "What  if  he  has  got  money 
and  family?  What  if  he  can  hang  up  a  lot  of  pic- 
tures of  his  ancestors  on  the  walls  ?  Like  as  not  some 
of  them  were  thieves,  or  worse.  A  fellow  ought  to  be 
judged  by  what  he  is,  not  by  the  number  of  genera- 
tions he  can  trace  his  family  back,  and  I  claim  he  isn't 
as  good  as  I  am.  He's  a  cad,  for  no  gentleman  would 
deliberately  sneer  at  a  fellow  and  hurt  his  feelings,  just 
because  he  doesn't  happen  to  have  money  or  social  po- 
sition." 

The  boy  paused  in  his  rapid  pacing  of  the  room 
before  the  photographs  of  his  father  and  mother  prom- 
inently displayed  on  the  bookshelf.  There  was  noth- 
ing ornamental  about  them.  They  were  just  plain 
working  people. 

His  father's  hands  were  calloused  and  rough  with 
toil.  His  face  was  lined  and  weather-beaten  from 
exposure  in  all  sorts  of  weather.  He  looked  awk- 
wardly conscious  in  the  "Sunday  suit."  The  mother's 
hands  were  rough,  too,  for  she  had  worked  hard  for 
many  years  to  raise  four  sons. 

The  boy's  eyes  were  a  little  moist  as  he  gazed  upon 
the  pictured  faces.  He  loved  them  dearly,  and  he 
was  not  ashamed  of  what  they  were.  He  was  proud 


George  Brown.  117 

of  them,  and  intensely  grateful  for  the  sacrifices  they 
had  made  in  order  that  their  eldest  son  might  have 
the  education  he  had  always  craved. 

He  knew  how  hurt  and  indignant  they  would  be  if 
they  had  any  idea  of  the  humiliation  that  son  had 
suffered,  for  they  had  always  held  George  the  least  bit 
in  awe.  Already,  at  seventeen,  he  had  more  book 
learning  than  they  had  ever- acquired,  and  they  deemed 
him  the  equal  of  any  one  in  the  whole  wide  world. 
Privately,  they  cherished  the  belief  that  he  could  ac- 
complish whatever  he  set  his  mind  on,  and  George 
would  not  have  disabused  them  of  this  innocent  belief 
for  anything. 

He  made  up  his  mind  never  to  hint  to  them  of 
the  treatment  he  had  received  at  the  hands  of  John 
Huntingdon  Blake.  He  would  even  try  to  forget  it 
himself. 

Unfortunately,  he  could  not.  Though  he  grew 
calmer,  the  sting  remained,  and  with  it  was  a  touch 
of  something  like  envy.  He  did  not  realize  it  him- 
self, and  had  he  been  accused  of  such  a  thing  he  would 
have  indignantly  denied  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  true.  He  envied  Blake  his 
suave,  perfectly  self-possessed  manner.  He  envied 
him  the  facility  with  which  he  made  friends  and 
gathered  around  him  some  of  the  best  fellows  in  the 
school.  ~  He  even  envied — for  Brown  was  very  hu- 
man— the  power  unlimited  wealth  always  seems  to 
bring;  and,  stranger,  perhaps,  than  anything  else,  was 
the  fact  that  he  began  to  think  of  his  own  ancestors, 
and  wish  he  knew  a  little  more  about  them. 

He   remembered  his   grandfather,  a  Long   Island 


Ii8  George  Brown. 

farmer,  but  vaguely.  In  the  press  of  other  more  ur- 
gent and  vital  things,  the  matter  had  received  scant 
attention  in  the  Brown  household. 

When  one  is  straining  every  effort  to  bring  up  a 
family  of  four  children  with  robust  appetites,  and  the 
common  habit  of  outgrowing,  or  outwearing,  their 
clothes  at  an  appalling  rate,  there  is  little  time  left 
for  the  consideration  of  family  or  ancestors.  The 
pressing,  vital  present  elbows  the  dead-and-gone  past 
into  the  background,  from  which  it  is  likely  never  to 
emerge  until  fortune  smiles  and  leisure  moments  be- 
come more  frequent. 

Nevertheless,  Brown  remembered  having  heard, 
somewhere,  that  the  farmers  of  Long  Island  are  noted 
for  their  pedigrees.  At  that  point,  however,  he  real- 
ized the  trend  of  his  thoughts,  and  dropped  the  sub- 
ject abruptly,  with  a  frown  of  annoyance. 

"I'm  a  fool!"  he  said  aloud.  "As  if  it  made  a  bit 
of  difference.  It's  all  tommyrot!  I'll  bet  our  friend 
would  never  think  any  more  of  us  if  we  had  a  family 
tree  a  mile  long." 

His  face  softened  a  little  as  he  let  his  mind  dwell 
on  the  one  entrancing  mystery  of  his  life.  It  had  all 
been  so  wonderful,  so  unexpected,  so  like  one  of  those 
things  which  occur  so  often  in  fiction  and  so  seldom 
in  real  life,  that  to  this  day  he  would  sometimes  awake 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  an  awful  fear  that  it 
had  not  happened  at  all — that  it  was  nothing  but  a 
dream. 

The  memory  would  be  always  with  him  of  that 
dreadful  day  when  his  father  was  injured,  and  of 
those  other,  scarcely  less  horrible,  days  and  weeks  and 


George  Brown.  119 

months  which  followed.  He  could  never  forget  the 
period  of  suspense,  of  waiting,  which  had  added  years 
to  the  bowed  shoulders  of  his  mother,  and  lines  of 
care  to  her  face.  And  when  at  last  the  news  came 
that  his  father  would  live,  a  cripple,  it  was  but  the 
beginning  of  their  troubles. 

Long  weeks  of  pinching  and  scraping  followed,  in 
which  the  little  hoard  at  the  bank  dwindled  lower 
and  lower  and  finally  was  gone. 

Eagerly,  but  with  a  sickening  sense  of  despair  and 
failure,  he  had  relinquished  every  hope,  every  ambi- 
tion, in  his  desire  to  lighten  the  weight  of  care  his 
mother  bore  with  such  brave  patience. 

That  period  at  the  canning  factory  was  like  a 
nightmare.  He  was  out  of  place  in  such  company,  but 
he  never  murmured.  Yet,  sometimes,  as  he  thought 
of  those  long  years  stretching  out  before  him,  monot- 
onous, deadening,  with  nothing  ever  to  look  forward 
to  but  grinding,  manual  labor,  when  his  whole  soul 
cried  out  for  higher,  broader  things,  the  mental  pain 
\vas  almost  unendurable. 

These  various  phases  of  misfortune  had  all  been 
fraught  with  various  emotions;  but,  one  and  all,  they 
faded  into  nothing  when  compared  with  the  rapturous 
thrill  that  came  with  his  release. 

In  a  breath,  every  trouble  and  worry  had  vanished 
like  a  mist  fading  before  the  midsummer  sun. 

A  job,  paying  more  than  he  had  obtained  in  his 
palmiest  days,  had  been  found  for  the  father.  That 
haunting  millstone  of  a  doctor's  bill  was  wiped  off 
as  swiftly  and  completely  as  chalk  under  a  wet  sponge, 
besides  leaving  enough  surplus  to  settle  the  most  press- 


I2O  George  Brown. 

ing  of  the  other  bills.  George  need  no  longer  slave 
away  his  life  in  the  factory,  but  could  proceed  at 
once  with  his  education. 

It  was  as  if  some  magician  had  waved  his  wand 
and  transformed  everything.  Doctor  Macdonald,  who 
had  been  the  means  of  bringing  all  this  happiness 
about,  told  them  that  their  benefactor  was  some  one 
who  was  interested  in  the  family,  but  who  preferred 
keeping  his  identity  to  himself. 

The  Brown  family  never  inquired  further  into  the 
particulars.  To  them  the  slightest  wish  of  this  won- 
derful person  was  sacred.  They  did  not  even  know 
whether  it  was  a  man  or  a  woman  who  had  so  trans- 
formed their  lives;  but  they  guessed  it  to  be  the  for- 
mer, from  a  chance  remark  of  the  doctor's. 

But  if  ever  a  human  being  was  given  the  attributes 
of  a  divinity,  it  was  this  unknown. 

The  Browns  presently  came  to  calling  him  "our 
friend,"  but  even  among  themselves  their  voices  were 
just  a  little  awestruck  and  hushed  when  they  talked 
of  him.  There  was  not  a  day  when  the  thankful 
mother  or  the  more  taciturn,  but  equally  grateful,  fa- 
ther, did  not  call  down  blessings  upon  his  head. 

It  was  George,  however,  more  than  any  of  the 
others,  who  thought  of  him  the  most.  He  had  a  good 
deal  of  imagination,  and  he  was  constantly  evolving 
in  his  mind  little  dramas  in  which  some  day  he  would 
discover  the  identity  of  the  man  he  almost  reverenced 
and  be  in  a  position  where  he  could  repay,  to  some 
slight  degree,  the  debt. 

He  credited  the  unknown  with  virtues  which,  though 
he  did  not  realize  it,  would  have  made  any  person 


George  Brown.  121 

possessing  them  an  insufferable  prig.  He  drew,  in 
fact,  a  mental  picture  of  a  morally  perfect  being,  and 
every  night  he  prayed,  sincerely,  fervently,  for  the 
happiness  of  the  one  who  had  transformed  his  life. 

"Our  friend  would  never  think  of  family,"  he  re- 
peated. "He  couldn't  be  such  a  cad  as  Blake  if  he 

tried.  He's  too  fine,  too  good,  too Oh,  too 

much  of  a  gentleman." 

Presently  he  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  let  his  mind, 
as  most  people  will,  wander  back  to  the  unpleasant 
topic.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  a  fool  to  be 
bothered  by  such  a  fellow  as  Blake.  There  were 
plenty  of  other  boys  he  could  make  his  friends.  He 
could  go  through  the  year  without  so  much  as  speak- 
ing to  the  man  who  had  humiliated  him. 

Try  as  he  would,  however,  the  thing  stuck  in  his 
mind.  It  was  like  a  tiny  thorn  which  has  penetrated 
the  skin,  and  presently,  festering,  grows  more  and 
more  painful.  One  ends  by  removing  the  thorn  at 
the  cost  of  some  extra  sharp  twinges,  or  else  lets  it 
stay  to  hurt  dully  and  constantly. 

Brown  let  it  stay. 

Before  the  bell  summoned  the  school  to  supper, 
he  was  hating  John  Huntingdon  Brown  with  an  in- 
tensity just  a  little  out  of  proportion  to  the  cause. 

"He's  a  beastly  cad,"  he  said  to  himself,  forgetting 
with  decided  lack  of  originality.  "No  fellow  who's 
a  gentleman  would  do  what  he's  done." 

Halfway  down  the  hall  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"I  just  hope  Moran  licks  him  to  a  standstill,"  he 
said  viciously.  "It'll  serve  the  conceited  fool  good 
and  right,  and  I'd  like  to  see  it  done." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE   FIGHT. 

rumor  of  a  fight  usually  circulates  like  wildfire, 
particularly  in  a  school;  but  the  proposed  encounter 
between  Red  Moran  and  the  new  boy,  Blake,  proved  to 
be  an  exception  to  the  general  rule. 

By  mutual  consent,  the  fellows  who  had  been  pres- 
ent at  the  quarrel  kept  silent.  Encounters  of  that 
kind  did  not  meet  with  the  approval  of  Frank  Mer- 
riwell,  and  they  were  afraid  that  if  knowledge  of  it 
leaked  out  a  stop  would  be  put  to  it  at  once. 

They  were  not  anxious  for  that  to  happen.  They 
knew  that  if  Moran  was  prevented  from  fighting,  his 
attitude  would  become  insufferable.  He  would  crow 
over  Blake  at  every  opportunity,  probably  alleging 
that  he  had  brought  about  the  thing  on  purpose  to 
avoid  being  licked. 

There  was  a  decided  curiosity,  also,  to  see  what 
Blake  could  really  do  with  his  fists.  So  far  the  new 
boy  had  shown  comparatively  little  athletic  ability. 
He  played  a  corking  game  of  tennis,  to  be  sure,  and 
rode  a  horse  with  the  skill  of  a  cow-puncher;  but  these 
things  were  not  considered  so  important  as  some  other 
accomplishments. 

Football  and  baseball  ranked  first,  of  course,  and 
Blake  had  done  nothing  at  either  sport.  When  ques- 
tioned, he  said  he  played  them  both  a  little,  but,  having 
arrived  too  late  to  try  for  the  eleven,  there  had  been 


The  Fight.  123 

no  opportunity  for  showing  of  what  that  little  con- 
sisted. His  manner  of  speaking  of  what  he  had  done 
on  the  diamond  and  track,  however,  did  not  warrant 
the  belief  that  he  was  particularly  accomplished  in 
either  of  these  major  sports. 

Among  the  minor  sports — if  it  can  be  classed  as 
such — the  boys  at  Farnham  Hall  considered  boxing  of 
the  first  importance. 

Merriwell  had  a  great  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  the 
art,  both  as  an  exercise  and  as  an  accomplishment. 
He  argued,  too,  that  the  more  skillful  a  gentleman 
was  with  the  gloves  the  less  likely  he  would  be  to  give 
rein  to  a  quarrelsome  disposition. 

The  theory  had  been  carried  out  to  such  an  ex- 
tent in  the  school  that  every  boy  received  a  thorough 
grounding  in  the  science,  and  regular  boxing  con- 
tests were  a  prominent  feature  all  through  the  winter. 

Among  those  who  had  taken  early  to  the  sport  with 
the  greatest  enthusiasm  was  Red  Moran.  He  had  had 
some  good  teachers  before  coming  to  Bloomfield,  and 
had  shown  himself  the  superior  of  almost  every  fellow; 
in  school. 

If  Blake  showed  himself  the  better  man,  his  stand- 
ing would  be  increased  and  his  position  assured;  for 
it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  a  fellow  may  be  ever  so 
entertaining,  accomplished,  and  pleasant,  but  he  never 
really  "belongs"  until  he  has  made  good  in  some  field 
of  athletics. 

It  was  this  same  fear  of  interruption,  probably, 
which  caused  Moran  to  inform  only  a  few  particular 
friends  of  the  forthcoming  event,  and  swear  them  to 
secrecy.  There  was  no  atom  of  a  doubt  in  his  mind 


H24  The  Fight. 

as  to  the  result ;  but  he  had  so  set  his  heart  on  pound- 
ing the  Californian  to  a  pulp  that  he  would  not  have 
had  the  affair  stopped  for  anything. 

The  result  was  that,  just  before  dusk,  when  foot- 
ball practice  was  dismissed  and  the  fellows  had  made 
a  bee  line  for  the  house  to  get  first  in  the  showers, 
four  of  them  lingered  behind  and  presently  might 
have  been  seen  hastening  toward  the  gym  with  equal 
ppeed. 

At  the  door  they  were  joined  by  Blake  himself,  cool 
and  unconcerned  as  ever,  together  with  Victor  Rives 
and  Beverly  Byrd,  two  boys  who  did  not  play  foot- 
ball, but  who  had  been  present  the  day  before  at  the 
quarrel. 

Hurrying  in,  they  discovered  Moran  and  his  friends 
\vaiting  impatiently,  while  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
group,  leaning  silently  against  the  wall,  stood  George 
Brown. 

The  time  was  short,  so  things  were  rushed  along 
•with  all  possible  speed.  Moran  had  already  picked 
out  his  gloves,  and  Blake  lost  no  time  in  finding  a  pair 
for  himself  and  stripping  to  his  undershirt,  as  his  op- 
ponent had  done.  Both  men  wore  rubber-soled  tennis 
shoes. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  after  their  entrance,  the 
combatants  had  fallen  back  a  step,  after  the  perfunc- 
tory handshake,  waiting  for  Jim  Phillips  to  give  the 
signal. 

In  that  brief  instant  more  than  one  of  the  eager 
circle  of  spectators  noted,  with  varying  feelings,  the 
contrast  between  the  two  fellows. 

Moran  was  big  and  solidly  put  together,  topping  his 


The  Fight.  12$ 

antagonist  by  a  good  six  inches.  His  girth  of  chest 
was  at  least  that  much  greater,  and  the  muscles  of 
chest,  arms,  and  back  were  almost  too  well-developed. 
'He  made  Blake  look,  as  one  chap  whispered  to  his 
neighbor,  "like  thirty  cents,"  and  there  was  scarcely  a 
doubt  among  at  least  half  of  the  onlookers  as  to  who 
was  going  to  prove  the  best  man. 

Phillips,  however,  and  one  or  two  others  who  were 
better  judges  of  the  human  animal,  were  not  so  sure. 
They  noted  the  rippling  flexibility  of  the  smaller  chap's 
muscles,  the  lithe  pose,  betokening  great  activity,  the 
unconscious  ease  with  which  he  fell  into  a  correct 
position.  His  face  was  calm  and  undisturbed,  a  faint 
smile  curving  the  corners  of  his  shapely  mouth,  and 
it  presented  a  marked  contrast  to  the  angry,  morose 
look  on  Moran's  visage. 

"It's  not  going  to  be  such  a  one-sided  affair,  after 
all,"  thought  Phillips,  with  pleasure. 

A  moment  later  he  gave  the  signal,  and  the  fight 
was  on. 

The  scant  dozen  boys  who  watched  it  in  breathless 
excitement  will  not  soon  forget  the  spectacle  which 
followed.  It  was  not  exactly  a  repetition  of  the  old 
David  and  Goliath  contest,  for  no  one  could  say  that 
Moran  lacked  skill  and  science,  but  it  was  something 
very  much  akin. 

Big  and  brawny  and  strong  as  he  was,  skillful  to 
a  degree  which  had  made  him  the  superior  of  all  but 
half  a  dozen  boys  in  the  entire  school,  Moran  never 
stood  a  chance  from  the  very  start. 

The  whirlwind  rushes  with  which  he  strove  at  the 


526  The  Fight. 

outset  to  annihilate  his  opponent,  were  checked  or 
avoided  by  Blake's  amazing  ability  and  speed.  Grit- 
ting his  teeth,  his  eyes  flashing,  the  big  fellow  would 
renew  the  attack  with  a  fury  which  it  seemed  impos- 
sible to  continue  long,  only  to  fail  each  time  to  touch 
his  adversary,  as  he  had  failed  at  first. 

Wasting  his  strength  in  futile  efforts,  losing  little 
by  little  the  slight  grip  he  held  upon  his  temper,  wild 
with  the  humiliation  of  his  helplessness  in  the  hands 
of  this  boy  he  had  boasted  he  would  fight  to  a  stand- 
still in  a  couple  of  rounds,  Moran  was  presently  re- 
duced to  a  condition  of  frantic,  impotent  fury  without 
his  opponent  having  struck  a  single  real  blow. 

It  was  the  most  astonishing  exhibition  of  coolness 
and  finesse,  of  playing  the  waiting  game,  that  those 
who  saw  it  had  ever  beheld.  And  when,  a  little  later, 
Blake  commenced  to  attack,  they  were  treated  to  a 
sight  such  as  very  few  of  them  had  ever  seen  any- 
where. 

To  those  who  knew  little  about  boxing,  the  sight 
resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  small,  active  terrier 
attacking  a  steer,  or  some  animal  of  equal  size.  Blake 
could  dodge  entirely  around  his  slower  opponent, 
while  Moran  was  turning  a  quarter  of  the  circle, 
and  he  utilized  to  the  utmost  the  advantage  his  activity 
gave  him. 

But,  though  it  might  seem  as  if  he  were  taking  a 
good  many  extra  steps  and  using  up  much  strength 
which  might  better  have  been  husbanded,  the  reverse 
was  true. 

The  smaller  chap  was  fighting  with  his  head  quite 


The  Fight.  123 

as  much  as  with  his  fists.  He  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity to  take  advantage  of  an  opening.  He  never 
— save  when  feinting — attempted  a  blow  which  did 
not  land  home.  He  utilized  his  strength  with  a  mini- 
mum of  waste  and  a  maximum  of  effect  which  was 
positively  masterly. 

He  had  started  out  with  a  definite  plan,  from  which 
he  did  not  diverge  a  hair's  breadth.  He  knew  Moran's 
weakness,  and  played  upon  it,  deliberately  seeking  to 
let  the  big  fellow  tire  himself  out  as  much  by  the 
wildness  of  his  uncontrolled  rage  as  by  any  physical 
means. 

And  when  at  last  he  landed  the  final  blow  which 
sent  Moran  sprawling,  unable  to  arise  until  after  time 
was  counted,  his  face  was  quite  unmarred,  save  by 
a  bruise  on  one  cheek  where  a.  glancing  blow  had 
struck. 

At  once  the  spectators,  who  had  long  ago  lost  all 
control  of  themselves  and  had  been  giving  vent  to 
their  excitement  quite  freely,  hastened  to  congratu- 
late the  victor.  They  did  it,  almost  without  excep- 
tion, in  a  hearty,  genuine  manner  which  showed  that 
they  appreciated  to  the  full  the  extraordinary  exhibi- 
tion they  had  just  witnessed. 

From  that  moment  John  Huntingdon  Blake  became 
somebody.  That  he  was  pleasant,  entertaining,  and 
amusing  had  already  been  admitted.  That  he  was  able 
to  trace  his  family  history  back  a  few  hundred  years, 
few  of  his  companions  cared  a  rap,  considering  it,  in 
fact,  somewhat  in  the  nature  of  an  eccentricity.  But 
when  Blake  received  the  title  of  champion  boxer  o.i 


128  The  Fight. 

Farnham  Hall,  he  was  instantly  advanced  a  dozen 
pegs  in  the  estimation  of  his  fellow  students. 

He  became  at  once  so  sought  after  and  in  demand 
that  every  bit  of  his  tact  and  finesse  was  called  into 
play  to  avoid  entanglement  with  boys  of  whose  ante- 
cedents he  did  not  approve. 


'CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AN    UNEXPECTED   PROPOSITION. 

George  Brown  had  witnessed  the  encounter  with 
mixed  feelings.  He  could  not  help  acknowledging 
the  undoubted  superiority  of  the  fellow  he  hated  over 
Red  Moran;  but  for  all  that  his  sympathies  had  never 
failed  to  be  with  the  chap  who  had  provoked  the  fight. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  aft'air,  he  was  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  ring;  but  swiftly,  almost  without  realiz- 
ing the  fact,  he  was  drawn  in  with  the  other  spec- 
tators by  the  thrilling  excitement  of  it  all;  and  from 
that  moment  he  ducked  and  dodged  and  circled  about 
with  the  rest,  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  struggle  be- 
fore him  and  the  necessity  of  watching  every  blow. 

He  realized  very  soon  that  there  could  be  but  one 
termination  to  the  bout.  He  saw,  too,  what  Blake's 
policy  was,  and  the  discovery  only  fanned  the  flame 
of  his  resentment  against  the  chap  from  California. 

Though  he  could  not  but  admit  that  Blake  was  per- 
fectly fair  and  square  in  his  methods,  it  seemed  to 
Brown  that  he  might  have  gone  about  his  work  of 
beating  Moran  in  a  different,  more  merciful,  way. 

"It's  a  dirty  trick,  making  a  show  of  Red,"  he  said 
passionately  to  himself.  "Why  doesn't  he  end  it 
quickly  and  get  the  thing  over  with?  He  could  do 
it  any  time  he  wanted  to,  but  yet  he  goes  ahead  and 
drags  it  out  as  long  as  he  can." 

Like  a  good  many  other  people,  Brown  did  not 
concede  his  enemy  more  justice  than  he  was  abso- 


1130  An  Unexpected  Proposition. 

lutely  forced  to.  He  wanted  to  think  the  worst  of 
Blake,  and  was  only  too  ready  to  credit  him  with  mo- 
tives which  had  probably  never  entered  the  fellow's 
mind.  He  wanted  to  believe  that  Blake  had  under- 
estimated his  ability  as  a  fighter  on  purpose  to  lure 
Moran  into  an  encounter,  and,  having  brought  that 
about,  he  was  deliberately  prolonging  the  fight  for  the 
sole  and  only  purpose  of  humiliating  his  antagonist. 

He  did  not  remember,  or  did  not  chose  to,  that 
Moran  alone  was  responsible  for  the  entire  affair.  He 
did  not  realize  that  the  red-headed  chap  was  a  fellow 
who  would  have  to  be  beaten  to  a  frazzle  before  he 
jvould  acknowledge  that  he  had  been  beaten  at  all. 

He  did  not  think  of  this  side,  because  he  did  not 
want  to;  and,  though  he  would  have  indignantly  de- 
nied an  accusation  of  unfairness,  he  really  was  unfair 
and  partisan  to  a  degree. 

After  the  fight,  he  was  one  of  the  few  who  did 
not  congratulate  Blake  and  shake  his  hand.  Con- 
gratulations he  did  not  think  had  been  merited;  and 
as  for  shaking  hands,  he  would  not  have  touched 
Blake's  palm  for  the  world. 

So  he  turned  and  made  his  way  quietly  out  of  the 
gymnasium,  his  face  frowning  and  his  spirit  chafed 
and  angry  at  the  whole  matter. 

He  told  himself  that  this  was  merely  another  in- 
stance of  Blake's  caddish  tendencies;  and  he  worked 
himself  into  such  an  irritated  frame  of  mind  that  his 
mood  was  reflected  in  the  letter  he  presently  sat  down 
to  write  to  a  friend  who  had  lately  moved  from  Cleve- 
land to  California  and  was  at  present  employed  in  a 
bookstore  in  Pasadena. 


An  Unexpected  Proposition. 

The  greater  part  of  the  epistle  was,  in  fact,  filled 
up  with  a  sarcastic,  somewhat  exaggerated,  descrip- 
tion of  John  Huntingdon  Blake,  his  fads,  his  friends, 
and  his  insufferable  behavior.  When  he  read  it  over, 
Brown  was  a  little  ashamed  of  its  tone  and  of  the 
amount  of  space  he  had  devoted  to  a  fellow  who 
could  not  be  very  interesting  to  his  friend,  though,  to 
be  sure,  Blake's  home  did  happen  to  be  in  that  very 
town. 

However,  he  had  been  owing  the  letter  for  some 
time,  and  would  have  no  chance  of  rewriting  it  that 
night,  so  he  let  it  go,  and  hastened  to  wash  up  for 
supper. 

An  hour  later,  just  as  he  was  passing  through  the 
hall  toward  the  lounging  room,  he  felt  a  light  touch 
on  his  shoulder,  and,  turning,  was  surprised  to  see 
the  chap  he  disliked  so  greatly  standing  beside  him, 
looking  as  fresh  and  cool  as  if  he  had  not  so  recently 
indulged  in  a  strenuous  encounter  with  one  of  the 
champions  of  the  school. 

"Hello,  Brown,"  Blake  said,  in  that. easy,  self-pos- 
sessed manner  which  so  grated  on  the  other's  sen- 
sibilities. "Have  you  anything  special  to  do  for  fif- 
teen minutes?" 

Puzzled,  but  very  much  on  his  dignity,  Brown  shook 
his  head. 

"No,  nothing  special,"  he  returned  stiffly. 

"Suppose  we  go  into  the  lounging  room,  then?" 
Blake  smiled.  "I  want  to  make  you  a  little  proposi- 
tion." 

For  a  moment  Brown  hesitated,  struggling  between 


132  An  Unexpected  Proposition. 

his  dislike  for  the  chap  and  his  curiosity  to  know  what 
could  be  coming. 

Curiosity  finally  won  out,  and,  with  a  slight  nod 
and  a  mumbled  acquiescence,  he  followed  the  other 
down  the  corridor  and  into  a  room  near  the  end  which 
had  been  furnished  with  comfortable  chairs,  couches, 
and  the  like  as  a  lounging  room  for  the  boys  to  use 
whenever  they  had  a  little  spare  time,  with  nothing 
more  important  on  their  minds  than  a  perusal  of  the 
latest  magazine,  or  just  an  idle  chat  with  some  of 
their  companions. 

As  his  eyes  traveled  swiftly  over  the  broad-shoul- 
dered, graceful,  perfectly  tailored  back  of  the  youth 
in  front  of  him,  Brown  frowned  deeply. 

What  was  there  about  this  chap  which  should  make 
Brown  stutter  and  stammer  and  flush  up  in  this  an- 
noying way  the  instant  he  was  addressed?  He  had 
planned  that  his  intercourse  with  Blake  should  be 
coldly  polite,  with  a  touch  of  dignified  disdain  to 
show  the  fellow  of  what  small  importance  were  his  in- 
sults. Yet  the  very  first  chance  he  had  to  put  this 
idea  into  practice,  he  was  awkward  and  embarrassed 
as  the  veriest  country  bumpkin. 

It  was  humiliating,  and  did  not  in  the  least  tend  to 
make  Brown  more  amiable  as  he  took  a  chair  in  one 
corner  of  the  lounging  room  and  waited  for  Blake 
to  speak. 

The  latter  seemed  to  be  in  some  slight  doubt  as  to 
how  to  begin,  but,  after  a  brief  pause,  he  said  slowly: 

"I  presume  you  know,  Brown,  that,  under  certain 
conditions,  Mr.  Merriwell  allows  a  little  private  tutor- 
ing here  at  school  ?" 


An  Unexpected  Proposition.  133 

The  Cleveland  chap  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  heard  nothing  about  it,"  he  returned 
shortly. 

Blake  smiled  a  little  at  the  other's  tone,  and  linked 
his  fingers  loosely  about  his  crossed  knees. 

"It's  a  fact,  nevertheless,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Pro- 
vided the  tutoring  does  not  interfere  with  any  of  the 
regular  work,  I  believe  it  is  rather  encouraged,  since 
it  gives  a  fellow  a  chance  to  make  a  little  extra 
money  on  the  side.  Three  hours  a  week  are  all  that 
any  boy  is  allowed  to  spend  in  either  giving  or  receiv- 
ing information." 

Brown,  still  mystified,  nodded  stiffly,  but  made  no 
remark. 

"My  proposition  is  this,"  Blake  continued,  appar- 
ently quite  oblivious  to  the  other's  coolness.  "I'm 
simply  rotten  at  math.  I  don't  seem  to  have  the  least 
bit  of  comprehension  of  the  subject,  and  if  I  don't  do 
something  mighty  sudden  I'll  not  be  able  to  pass  my 
prelim  next  spring.  Now,  I've  noticed  that  you're  a 
regular  shark  at  both  algebra  and  geometry,  and  the 
idea  struck  me  that,  if  you  would,  you'd  probably  be 
able  to  coach  me  up  in  them  so's  I'd  get  the  hang 
better.  What  do  you  say  to  it?  Provided,  of  course, 
that  you  could  spare  the  time." 

The  color  flamed  into  Brown's  face,  and  his  heavy 
brows  contracted  in  a  scowl.  Here  was  a  fresh  in- 
sult. Not  content  with  showing  him  plainly  that  he 
considered  himself  made  of  better  clay  than  a  work- 
ingman's  son,  Blake  was  throwing  his  poverty  into 
his  face  by  suggesting  that  he  become  a  tutor.  It 
was  intolerable,  and,  without  further  hesitation, 


134  An  Unexpected  Proposition. 

Brown  declined  the  proposition  with  an  emphatic,  un- 
qualified abruptness. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it,"  he  said,  almost  snappishly. 

Blake  looked  slightly  surprised. 

"It  would  only  be  three  hours  a  week,  and  you'd 
help  me  out  a  lot,"  he  protested,  purposely  ignoring 
the  help  which  his  money  would  be  to  a  fellow  as 
palpably  poor  as  the  one  before  him. 

Brown  arose,  his  face  still  frowning. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it,"  he  repeated,  in  a  tone  of 
finality. 

Blake  shrugged  his  shoulders  resignedly. 

"Of  course,  if  you  take  that  stand,  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said,"  he  murmured.  "I'm  sorry.  I 
thought  we'd  hit  it  off  rather  well  together,  if  you 
could  put  up  with  my  stupidity." 

Brown  would  have  given  anything  for  a  sarcastic 
retort  which  would  convey  the  dislike  and  contempt 
he  felt  for  his  companion,  and  at  the  same  time  be 
properly  dignified.  None  occurred  to  him,  however. 
It  would  doubtless  leap  into  his  mind,  matured,  biting, 
and  very  much  to  the  point,  about  the  time  he  was 
dozing  off  that  night.  That  was  the  way  such  things 
usually  happened  with  him. 

Just  now  he  flushed  a  little  and  bit  his  lip  as  he 
shook  his  head  again  and  turned  away. 

He  had  not  taken  three  steps  across  the  floor  when 
he  stopped  abruptly  at  the  thought  which  had  come 
into  his  mind.  For  an  instant  he  had  forgotten  his 
position  here.  He  was  very  far  from  being  free  and 
independent.  He  was  indebted  to  that  unknown 
friend  of  his  to  a  degree  which  a  lifetime  of  effort 


An  Unexpected  Proposition.  135 

could  not  repay.  Was  it  not  his  duty  to  take  every 
opportunity  of  helping  himself?  Had  he  the  right 
to  decline  anything  that  would  bring  in  a  few  dollars 
— money  which  would  be  of  infinite  service  to  those 
at  home,  who  still,  in  spite  of  their  new-found  pros- 
perity, made  many  sacrifices  on  his  account?  Was  he 
not  wrong  in  letting  his  pride  prevent  his  becoming 
an  undoubted  material  help  to  them  ? 

His  face  flushed  and  his  hands  clenched  and  un- 
clenched themselves  as  he  fought  it  out  in  those  brief 
moments,  standing  undecided,  with  the  eyes  of  John 
Huntingdon  Blake  regarding  him  in  curious  specula- 
tion. 

At  last  his  common  sense  conquered,  and,  with  an 
effort,  he  turned  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  sitting 
youth. 

"I've — changed  my  mind,"  he  stammered.     "If  you 
« — want  me  to,  I'll  take  your  offer." 
'Blake  smiled  pleasantly. 

"I'm  awfully  glad,"  he  said  frankly.  "I  don't  know 
who  I  should  go  to  if  you  threw  me  down.  Will — er 
— two  dollars  an  hour  be  satisfactory?" 

Brown  restrained  his  emotion  with  difficulty. 

"Perfectly,"  he  said  curtly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floor  and  his  cheeks  still  bright.  "When  do  you  want 
to  start  in?" 

"May  as  well  begin  to-morrow,"  Blake  returned. 
"Suppose  you  come  around  to  my  room  right  after 
dinner.  Then  we'll  get  it  over  with  before  there's 
anything  doing  on  the  field.  Is  that  agreeable?" 

Brown  nodded. 


136  An  Unexpected  Proposition. 

"Yes,  and — thank  you,"  he  said  grudgingly,  as  he 
turned  away. 

If  there  was  in  John  Huntingdon  Blake's  mind  the 
most  remote  idea  that,  by  thus  giving  Brown  some 
paying  work,  he  would,  in  a  measure,  atone  for  the 
thoughtless  words  which  he  had  uttered  a  couple  of 
days  before,  and  which  he  had  since  regretted  not  a 
little,  he  was  vastly  mistaken. 

The  shabbily  dressed  lad  left  the  room,  his  dislike 
increased  to  positive  hatred  by  what  he  considered 
a  fresh  insult. 

He  would  accept  the  work  Blake  had  to  give,  but 
he  made  instant  mental  decision  that  their  relation- 
ship should  be  strictly  a  business  one.  He  might,  in- 
deed, receive  money  from  the  snobbish  youth,  but  it 
would  be  money  well  earned.  He  would  give  good 
value,  and  it  need  not  effect  his  private  opinion  in 
the  slightest. 

One  might  have  supposed  John  Huntingdon  Blake 
wise  enough  to  realize  that  the  conferring  of  a  benefit 
is  often  more  productive  of  hatred  and  malice  than 
the  doing  of  an  injury,. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ADDING   INSULT  TO   INJURY. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  John  Huntingdon  Blake  carelessly, 
"dad's  on  the  other  side.  Went  over  to  see  the  coro- 
nation, you  know,  and  now  he's  visiting  friends  there. 
He  stayed  with  Lord  Hereford  while  he  was  in  Lon- 
don, and  now  I  believe  he's  shooting  at  Granley 
Towers,  the  Duke  of  Granley's  estate,  in  Norfolk." 

"Does  he  spend  much  of  his  time  over  there?"  in- 
quired Victor  Rives,  evidently  considerably  impressed. 

"Yes,  quite  a  little.  He  likes  the  life  there,  and 
the  people.  Of  course,  he'd  never  care  about  living 
there  altogether — he's  too  good  an  American  for  that; 
but  he  often  says  that  this  country  is  no  place  for  men 
of  leisure." 

"He's  never  been  in  business,  then?"  Rives  asked. 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  Blake  smiled.  "His  money  came 
from  land — royal  grants  to  the  Sir  Guy  Blake  who 
was  governor  of  Bermuda  and  who  afterward  settled 
here.  They  increased  enormously  in  value  until  now 
dad  has  more  money  than  he  could  possibly  spend. 
Of  course,  he  is  busy,  to  a  certain  extent,  looking  after 
his  investments  and  all  that,  but  I  don't  suppose  you'd 
call  "that  real  work." 

Rives  laughed. 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  should,"  he  agreed.  "Cutting 
coupons  may  be  a  little  tiring  on  the  fingers,  but  there 
are  compensations.  Well,  I  must  go.  Don't  forget 


138  Adding  Insult  to  Injury. 

to  show  up  on  the  courts  at  three,  and  we'll  have  a 
couple  of  sets." 

He  departed,  and  Blake  returned  to  his  desk,  where 
he  had  been  writing  a  note  on  the  heavy,  cream-tinted 
paper  bearing  the  Blake  crest  which  filled  the  massive 
silver  rack  in  such  profusion. 

From  where  he  sat  at  another  table,  correcting 
some  problems  in  geometry,  George  Brown  glanced 
over  at  him  and  frowned.  He  had  been  on  his  job 
for  some  little  time,  and  this  was  the  sort  of  thing 
which  went  on  constantly.  Fellows  were  eternally 
dropping  in  for  a  minute  to  make  appointments,  bor- 
row something,  or  just  to  laugh  and  chat  with  the 
popular  Blake,  and  the  shabbily  dressed  lad  had  come 
to  hate  it  intensely. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  interruption  to  their  work 
which  got  on  his  nerves,  as  the  fact  of  Blake's  popu- 
larity being  forced  upon  him  so  constantly.  It  was 
in  such  striking  contrast  to  his  own  lot,  for  though 
Brown  had  made  a  number  of  friends,  he  was  not 
the  sort  who  attracts  people  to  him  by  the  power  of 
personal  magnetism,  and  he  was  by  no  means  gen- 
erally popular. 

Consequently,  he  could  not  help  envying  the  fellow 
who  succeeded,  apparently  without  effort,  where  he 
had  failed;  and  each  time  he  came  for  that  hour  of 
tutoring,  he  found  the  effort  harder,  the  hour  longer, 
and  himself  growing  more  and  more  bitter  against  the 
fate  which  had  given  this  chap  not  only  money  and 
birth,  but  a  personality  which  attracted  friends  as 
honey  does  bees. 

The  very  atmosphere  of  the  room  irritated  him 


Adding  Insult  to  Injury.  139 

with  its  air  of  quiet,  expensive  simplicity.  Everything 
in  it  suggested  opulence,  from  the  rows  and  rows  of 
books,  which  Blake  scarcely  ever  opened,  to  the  heavy, 
crested  silver  desk  appointments. 

Brown  came  presently  to  hate  the  very  sight  of  the 
amiable  countenance  of  Admiral  Blake,  and  wished 
more  than  once  that  he  might  wipe  that  slightly  sim- 
pering smile  from  the  face  of  Lady  Constance,  daugh- 
ter of  the  Earl  of  Talbot.  One  and  all,  these  painted 
likenessess  of  dead-and-gone  Blakes  seemed  to  be  con- 
stantly regarding  him  with  that  same  maddeningly 
gracious  condescension  that  was  a  marked  feature  of 
their  descendant's  attitude  toward  those  who  were 
beneath  him  in  birth  and  breeding. 

Another  extremely  trying  thing  was  the  manner 
in  which  John  Huntingdon  Blake  had  come  to  chat 
occasionally  after  the  hour  of  mathematics  was  over. 
His  manner  was  pleasant  enough,  but  there  was  a 
subtle  something  in  it  which  was  quite  lacking  when 
he  laughed  and  joked  with  any  of  his  real  friends. 
There  was  none  of  that  touch  of  easy  intimacy;  and, 
though,  had  he  been  asked,  Brown  would  have  dis- 
claimed any  desire  to  be  on  good  terms  with  his  em- 
ployer, he  resented  very  much  being  treated  as  one  on 
a  different  plane. 

It  was  infinitely  more  galling  than  a  business  rela- 
tion, pure  and  simple,  and  Brown  felt  that  if  it  con- 
tinued Very  much  longer,  things  would  come  to  a  head, 
and  he  would  be  forced  to  give  up  the  work  which, 
hate  it  though  he  did,  he  had  come  to  look  upon  with 
thankfulness  as  a  means  for  helping  his  people. 

"You've  got  all  these  right  but  one,"  he  said  pres- 


140  'Adding  Insult  to  Injury. 

ently,  as  he  gathered  the  sheets  of  paper  together  and 
arose  from  the  table. 

Blake  glanced  up,  smiling. 

"That's  good,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "I'm  certainly 
coming  on.  At  first  I  was  lucky  if  they  weren't  all 
wrong  but  one.  You're  a  jewel  of  a  tutor,  Brown. 
Just  a  second,  and  I'll  finish  this  letter,  and  be  with 
you." 

Brown  turned  away,  with  a  frown,  and  glanced  out 
of  the  window.  There  it  was  again,  that  everlasting 
rubbing  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  tutor.  Not  that  he 
was  ashamed  of  it  in  the  least,  but  he  hated  the  manner 
in  which  Blake  seemed  to  be  constantly  reminding  him 
that  he  was  not  like  the  other  fellows  who  came  in. 

"What's  he  think,  anyhow  ?"  he  said  angrily,  under 
his  breath.  "Is  he  afraid  I'll  take  advantage  of  being 
here  this  way  to  try  and  worm  my  way  into  his  friend- 
ship? I  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  could.  I  don't  want  to 
be  his  friend.  I  hate  him!" 

He  chafed  and  fussed,  while  Blake  finished  his  let- 
ter and  directed  the  envelope.  And  when  he  started 
to  explain  the  problem  which  had  gone  wrong,  his 
manner  was  short  and  distant  to  a  degree. 

Perhaps  John  Huntingdon  Blake  had  grown  just  a 
little  weary  of  this  stand-offish  attitude  when  he  had 
done  his  best  to  be  pleasant.  Perhaps  his  mind  was  on 
the  proposed  tennis  match  with  Rives,  rather  than  the 
matter  at  hand. 

At  all  events,  whatever  the  reason  might  have  been, 
he  managed  to  put  an  extra  amount  of  condescension 
into  his  manner,  with  the  result  that  Brown  had  all 
he  could  do  to  hold  himself  in  and  refrain  from  ai> 


Adding  Insult  to  Injury.  141 

angry  outburst  which  would  probably  have  ended  in 
a  complete  severing  of  their  relationship. 

He  managed  to  control  himself;  but,  when  he  had 
closed  the  door  behind  him  and  was  hurrying  through 
the  hall,  his  face  became  a  veritable  thundercloud. 

"He's  the  limit!"  he  muttered  angrily.  "By  Jove! 
I'd  give  anything  if  I  could  only  get  even  with  him 
somehow." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  TURN   OF   FORTUNE'S   WHEEE. 

George  Brown  was  not  especially  keen  about  ath- 
letics. He  had  never  had  time  nor  opportunity  for 
them;  and,  consequently,  he  knew  little  about  them 
from  a  player's  point  of  view.  He  had  developed, 
however,  a  liking  for  watching  the  football  practice, 
and  he  had  planned  to  spend  this  afternoon  in  that  way 
on  the  field. 

Going  to  his  room,  he  flung  down  the  hated  book  of 
geometry,  which  was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of 
servitude,  picked  up  cap  and  sweater,  and  hastened 
downstairs.  On  his  way  out,  he  passed  the  small 
room  where  the  mail  was  sorted  and  delivered,  and 
stepped  in  to  see  if  there  might  be  a  letter  from  home. 

There  was  a  letter,  but  it  happened  to  be  post- 
marked Pasadena,  California,  instead  of  Cleveland. 

"From  Jim,"  he  commented,  as  he  slit  open  the  en- 
velope and  took  out  the  rather  bulky  inclosure.  "Must 
be  in  answer  to  the  one  I  wrote  him  last  week." 

There  were  several  closely  written  pages,  and  Brown 
spread  them  out,  with  no  little  curiosity  as  to  what  his 
friend  could  have  found  to  fill  so  much  space.  Ap- 
parently it  was  nothing  special.  The  opening  was 
made  up  of  various  minor  happenings  and  common- 
place bits  of  news,  but  about  the  middle  of  the  second 
sheet  George  came  to  something  which  made  him  give 
an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  pause  in  his  slow  walk 


The  Turn  of  Fortune's  Wheel.         143 

across  the  grass,  his  expression  one  of  the  most  intense 
interest,  tempered  with  pleasure. 

"I  laughed  to  myself,"  ran  the  epistle,  "at  what  you 
said  about  Jack  Blake  and  the  lugs  he  is  putting  on 
at  Farnham  Hall.  For  a  minute  I  could  hardly  be- 
lieve he  could  possibly  be  the  fellow  who  lives  here, 
but  when  I  made  a  few  inquiries  I  saw  there  couldn't 
be  the  slightest  doubt. 

"He  always  was  smart,  but  I  never  would  have  be- 
lieved that  he  could  fool  the  whole  bunch  of  you 
the  way  he  seems  to  have  done.  If  you  could  see  his 
father,  old  Jim  Blake,  you'd  understand,  George,  how 
funny  all  that  guff  about  family  and  ancestors  and 
the  like  really  is.  The  old  man  is  quite  a  character 
about  here.  He  started  out  years  ago,  I  believe,  as  a 
ragpicker,  and,  later,  went  around  the  country  peddling 
tinware.  Somehow  or  other,  he  managed  to  save 
enough  to  buy  some  land,  which  nobody  thought  was 
worth  anything,  but  later  oil  was  discovered  on  it  in 
such  quantities  that  he  sold  out  for  over  a  million. 

"That's  how  he  got  his  start.  Being  a  shrewd  old 
codger,  he's  manipulated  that  million  until  it's  sup- 
posed now  to  be  about  ten.  There's  no  fake  about 
that  part  of  it.  They've  got  the  coin,  all  right — bar- 
rels of  it.  But  when  it  comes  to  family,  there's  noth- 
ing doing.  Heaven  knows  where  Jack  picked  up  those 
portraits  of  his  ancestors,  but,  take  it  from  me,  they're 
fakes.  He's  been  abroad  a  lot,  and  very  likely  he 
bought  them  over  there  to  palm  off  on  that  crowd 
of  easy  marks  you  train  with. 

"I  do"h't  believe  he  knows  who  his  own  grandfather 
was,  let  alone  tracing  the  line  back  a  few  hundred 
years.  The  old  man  is  a  good  sort,  to  be  sure,  but 
the.'e  isn't  a  frill  on  him  that  you  can  see  with  the 
naked  eye.  He  chases  around  town  in  a  big  French 
car,  that  he  drives  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  suspenders 


144        The  Turn  of  Fortune's  Wheel. 

showing,  and  no  collar.  They've  got  a  big  house  out- 
side of  town  which  is  a  corker,  but  they  say  old  Blake 
would  a  lot  rather  spend  his  time  in  a  two-room  affair 
he  built  away  out  in  the  country  than  in  all  that 
grandeur. 

"The  whole  trouble  is,  he  can't  get  used  to  refined 
life.  I  guess  his  money  came  too  late,  and  he  can't 
change  the  habits  of  his  youth. 

"Of  course,  the  son  is  different.  He  stays  here  very 
little,  and  they  say  the  reason  for  that  is  because  he's 
ashamed  of  the  way  his  father  goes  on.  I've  seen 
Jack  several  times,  and  you'd  certainly  never  think 
he  belonged  to  the  old  man.  He's  the  swellest  dresser 
in  Pasadena,  all  right,  and  I  reckon  the  amount  he 
spends  on  clothes  would  support  two  or  three  families 
in  luxury.  He's  got  swell  manners,  too,  but  they're  a 
little  too  high  and  mighty  to  suit  me. 

"There  isn't  a  doubt  that  he  and  your  John  Hunt- 
ingdon Blake  are  the  same,  though,  for  I  learned  that 
Jack  had  gone  to  this  same  school  at  Bloomfield  for  a 
year  before  entering  college.  I  suppose  he  picked  up 
the  'Huntingdon'  the  same  place  he  got  his  ancestors. 
It's  a  heap  sight  more  tony  than  plain  John  Blake, 
isn't  it? 

"Do  write  and  let  me  know  what  happens  when  his 
little  bubble  bursts,  for  I'm  very  curious  to  know.  I 
don't  suppose  he  had  any  idea  that  it  would  be  found 
out.  Very  likely  he  discovered  that  there  was  no  one 
from  around  Pasadena  at  the  school  before  he  decided 
to  go  there.  Ever  yours,  JAMES  BOWERS." 

As  he  finished  the  letter,  Brown's  face  was  a  pic- 
ture. Amazement  and  intense,  almost  vindictive,  sat- 
isfaction struggled  for  supremacy,  the  latter  speedily 
predominating. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "What  do  you 
think  of  that?" 


The  Turn  of  Fortunes  Wheel.         145 

It  seemed  entirely  too  good  to  be  true.  To  think 
that  the  lofty,  superior  Blake,  whom  he  had  come 
to  hate  so  intensely,  was  all  a  bluff,  was  something 
which  had  never  occurred  to  him.  The  boy  had  car- 
ried out  the  deception  in  every  detail  so  thoroughly 
that,  even  now,  with  the  evidence  in  his  hand,  Brown 
could  scarcely  credit  it. 

He  read  the  letter  carefully  again,  and  his  spirits 
went  up  at  a  bound.  It  must  be  true.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  two  Blakes  were  one. 
and  the  same.  Those  hateful  portraits,  then,  were 
not  Blake's  at  all.  They  had  doubtless  been  picked 
up  in  some  antique  shop,  as  Bowers  had  suggested. 
They  were  fakes.  The  coat  of  arms  which  was  en- 
graved and  emblazoned  on  anything  and  everything 
was  a  fake. 

The  whole  elaborate  story  of  all  those  ancestors  was 
a  lie  from  beginning  to  end.  Blake  had  no  ancestors, 
not  even  a  grandfather.  His  very  name  did  not  be- 
long to  him. 

"Jack  Blake  is  all  he  really  is,"  Brown  said  aloud,  in 
a  tone  of  malicious  satisfaction.  "What  a  come-down 
that  is  from  the  elegant  'Jonn  Huntingdon  Blake.'  " 

What  an  insufferable  cad  the  fellow  was!  He  was 
ashamed  of  his  own  father — the  man  who,  by  his 
shrewd  foresight,  had  piled  up  millions  for  his  only 
son  to  gnjoy.  Brown  was  filled  with  righteous  indig- 
nation at  the  thought.  The  idea  of  a  fellow  prac- 
tically disowning  his  father!  It  was  disgusting  be- 
yond words. 

Suddenly  he  laughed  aloud.  It  was  not  a  particu- 
larly pleasant  laugh,  for  he  was  thinking  of  what  a 


146 

stir  the  revelation  would  cause  throughout  the  school. 
It  seemed  the  irony  of  fate  that  he,  the  fellow  Blake 
had  humiliated  and  insulted,  should  be  the  means  of 
bringing  the  truth  to  light. 

Of  course,  he  meant  to  spread  it  about.  He  told 
himself  that  it  was  his  duty,  deliberately  ignoring  the 
fact  that  Blake  had  been  the  means  of  his  receiving 
six  dollars  a  week  for  tutoring.  He  as  deliberately 
closed  his  eyes  to  the  effect  such  a  blow  would  have  on 
the  principal  actor  in  the  little  deception.  Or,  to  be 
more  exact,  he  did  not  care  how  much  the  chap  suf- 
fered. He  could  not  suffer  more  than  he  deserved. 

Suddenly  he  thrust  the  letter  into  his  pocket  and 
started  swiftly  across  the  field.  There  was  no  time 
to  lose.  He  would  do  it  now. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  engaged  in  earnest  con- 
versation with  Red  Moran,  the  subject  of  which 
seemed  to  be  intensely  interesting  and  satisfactory  to 
tiiem  both. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE     BOMBSHELL. 

The  astounding  news  spread  like  wildfire  through 
the  school,  and  created  more  comment  than  anything 
which  had  happened  in  many  a  day. 

The  discovery  that  Blake's  whole  life  was  one  great 
deception  was  greeted  with  joyful  glee  by  many  of  the 
boys  who  had  been  more  or  less  snubbed  in  that 
quarter. 

They  laughed  scornfully  as  they  discussed  the  matter 
in  the  corridors  and  rejoiced  at  the  downfall  of  the 
fellow  who  had  almost  worshiped  family,  but  who,  it 
now  developed,  had  none  at  all. 

They  jeered  at  the  portraits  they  had  once  regarded 
with  awe,  and  sneered  contemptuously  at  the  "rag- 
picker's son,"  forgetting  that  a  few  hours  before  they 
would  have  crawled  on  their  knees  to  secure  his  friend- 
ship. 

But  they  were  in  the  minority.  The  opinion  of  the 
majority — and  that  included  all  of  those  who  had  been 
admitted  to  terms  of  intimacy  by  Blake,  as  well  as 
many  others  who  had  admired  him  from  a  distance 
since  he  had  vanquished  Red  Moran — was  that  the 
whole  affair  was  a  misfortune. 

"It's  a  darned  shame!"  Don  Shasta  said  heartily,  in 
talking  it  over  with  Phillips.  "Of  course,  I  suppose 
it  wasn't  right  for  John  to  fake  up  all  these  ancestors 
and  the  rest  of  it.  But,  shucks!  you  might  think  be 


148  The  Bombshell. 

was  a  criminal  from  the  way  some  of  these  fools  go 
on.  It  makes  me  sick  to  hear  'em!" 

"I  should  say  it  did,"  Phillips  agreed  instantly. 
"There  isn't  one  who  wouldn't  have  been  tickled  to 
death  to  have  Blake  say  a  nice  word  to  him  before  this 
happened." 

Shasta  nodded  emphatically. 

"Sure  they  would !  I'd  like  to  take  that  rotten 
little  Brown  by  the  neck  and  choke  him.  He's  to 
blame  for  the  whole  thing,  and  now  I  s'pose  he's  sat- 
isfied. He  never  did  like  John  after  that  time  when 
he  hid  behind  the  lamp  and  we  got  to  talking  without 
knowing  he  was  there." 

"He  didn't  hide,"  Phillips  objected.  "We  just 
didn't  see  him,  that's  all.  I  think,  myself,  it  would 
have  been  decenter  for  him  to  keep  this  to  himself, 
though.  I'm  afraid  it'll  mean  our  losing  Blake." 

"You  really  think  he'll  go?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  It  would  be  mighty  hard  to  stay 
here  after  this.  I'm  beastly  sorry,  too,  for  he's  a 
corking  fellow,  after  you  get  to  know  him." 

"That's  right,"  Shasta  agreed  mournfully.  "Of 
course,  he  was  hipped  on  this  question  of  family,  but 
nobody  paid  much  attention  to  that.  Every  fellow  has 
his  weak  points,  and  that  was  his.  Do  you  think  it 
would  do  any  good  for  us  to  tell  him  we're  all  with 
him  and  don't  give  a  hang  about  this  ?" 

Phillips  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then  shook 
his  head  slowly. 

"No,  I  don't  believe  it  would.  He's  a  chap  who 
would  decide  for  himself  what  he  means  to  do  with- 
out any  help.  It's  up  to  us,  though,  to  behave  ex- 


The  Bombshell.  149 

actly  as  we  always  have,  and  that  ought  to  show  him 
how  little  we  care,  without  any  words.  We  don't 
want  to  be  too  nice,  or  he'll  think  we're  sorry  for  him. 
Just  act  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  I  think  he'll 
understand." 

They  carried  out  that  program.  But,  from  Blake's 
manner,  it  was  quite  impossible  to  get  any  idea  of 
what  went  on  beneath  the  surface.  His  manner  was 
absolutely  unchanged.  Perhaps  he  was  a  shade  more 
serious  than  usual,  but  not  much.  He  laughed  and 
joked  as  he  had  always  done,  and  continued  to  regard 
the  boys  he  did  not  care  for  with  exactly  the  same 
manner  of  tolerant  condescension  he  had  always  shown 
toward  them. 

One  thing  only  was  noticeable:  He  never,  by  a 
single  word,  spoke  of  family  or  ancestors.  The  por- 
traits and  photographs  stayed  in  their  places,  the  fake 
crest  was  flaunted  as  of  yore,  but  Blake  never  men- 
tioned them. 

The  boys  voted  him  a  thorough  sport,  and  hoped  the 
matter  would  die  away.  Unfortunately,  it  did  not 
Not  content  with  what  he  had  done,  George  Brown 
seemed  to  delight  in  continuing  his  work  by  constantly 
bringing  up  the  subject. 

At  the  end  of  two  days,  boys,  hanging  around  Frank 
Merriwell's  office,  saw  Blake  disappear  inside.  He 
was  there  for  a  long  time — nearly  an  hour,  in  fact, 
and  when  he  emerged  he  hastened  away  at  once  with- 
out giving  any  one  a  chance  to  speak  to  him. 

After  that  all  sorts  of  rumors  were  rife.  Some  said 
that  Merriwell  had  summoned  him  to  dismiss  him 
from  Farnham  Hall.  Others  contended  that  he  was 


150  The  BomEsfiell. 

going  of  his  own  accord.  There  were  a  few  who 
hoped  that  he  would  not  go  at  all,  but  were  afraid 
that  he  might  be  forced  out  by  the  persistent  enmity 
of  Brown,  Moran,  and  one  or  two  others. 

It  was  on  that  very  afternoon  that  George  Brown 
received  a  sudden  summons  to  Merry's  office,  which 
he  obeyed  with  outward  calm,  but  with  considerable 
inward  curiosity.  He  was  not  conscious  of  having 
broken  any  of  the  rules;  and  as  for  his  part  in  the 
late  excitement,  he  told  himself  that  what  he  had  done 
could  never  be  criticized. 

To  his  astonishment,  the  first  person  he  set  eyes 
on  after  entering  the  office  was  his  old  friend,  Doctor 
Angus  Macdonald,  of  Cleveland. 

"Why,  doctor!"  he  exclaimed,  hastening  forward 
with  outstretched  hand.  "This  is  great!  I  had  no 
idea  you  expected  to  run  down  here.  It's  fine  to  see 
you." 

Doctor  Macdonald  nodded  to  him  coolly,  but  made 
no  attempt  to  rise.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed  and 
his  eyes  indignant  He  quite  ignored  the  hand  Brown 
held  out. 

"I  sometimes  come  down  to  see  my  friend,  Mr.  Mer- 
riwell,"  he  said  shortly,  and  then  went  on  in  a  tone 
of  the  most  intense  displeasure :  "Well,  I  hope  you're 
satisfied  with  what  you've  done?" 

Brown  gasped.  He  had  been  hurt  and  bewildered 
at  the  coldness  of  the  usually  friendly  doctor,  but 
this  attack  fairly  took  away  his  breath. 

"Why,  wh — what  do  you  mean  ?"  he  stammered. 

"You  ought  to  know  very  well  what  I  mean,"  re- 
torted the  older  man  severely.  "I  suppose  you  think 


The  Bombshell.  151 

it  a  neat  trick  deliberately  to  lay  for  a  boy  who  has 
never  done  you  any  harm,  and  expose  him  to  the 
scorn  and  ridicule  of  all  his  schoolmates." 

Brown's  face  crimsoned,  and  he  drew  himself  up 
stiffly. 

"I  suppose  you  refer  to  Blake,"  he  answered.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  he  is  to  blame  for  what  happened, 
not  I." 

"Then  you  suppose  wrong,"  the  doctor  retorted 
vigorously.  "You  knew  nothing  whatever  about  the 
facts  of  the  case  beyond  what  your  precious  Pasadena 
friend  retailed,  and  yet  you  are  only  too  ready  to  ac- 
cept them  as  gospel  and  put  upon  them  the  worst  con- 
struction possible." 

"But  when  a  fellow  is  ashamed  of  his  own 
father "  began  Brown. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  interrupted  Doctor 
Macdonald  angrily.  "What  business  is  it  of  yours  if 
he  was?  It's  a  lie,  of  course.  They're  devoted  to 
each  other,  but  they  each  live  the  way  they  prefer,  and 
so  people  gossip.  I  have  never  approved  of  this  an- 
cestor deception,  but  it's  nothing  like  as  bad  as  the 
quality  of  ingratitude." 

The  flush  deepened  on  Brown's  face. 

"I  certainly  gave  full  value  for  money  received,"  he 
protested,  thinking  of  the  lessons  tutoring.  "It  was  a 
business  relation,  and  nothing  else." 

The  doctor  sprang  to  his  feet  and  took  a  step  for- 
ward. 

"Oh,  was  it?"  he  demanded.  "Young  man,  do  you 
know  who  John  Blake  is  ?" 

Brown  gazed  at  him  in  bewilderment.     For  a  mo- 


152  The  Bombshell. 

ment  he  wondered  whether  the  doctor  had  taken  leave 
of  his  senses.  He  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say, 
and  then  was  spared  the  trouble  when  the  impulsive 
doctor  went  on  swiftly: 

"But  for  him  you'd  be  in  that  canning  factory  this 
yery  minute,  and  your  father  would  be  Heaven  knows 
where.  A  nice  spirit  you  show,  I  must  say,  to  do  your 
best  to  hurt  the  boy  who  has  done  more  for  you  and 
your  family,  than  any  one  else  in  the  world  1" 


'CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE     IRONY     OF     FATE. 

For  a  moment  Brown  stared  stupidly  at  the  speaker, 
as  if  unable  to  comprehend  his  meaning. 

"I  don't — understand,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  queer 
voice. 

Doctor  Macdonald  sniffed  impatiently. 

"I  spoke  plainly  enough,"  he  retorted.  "The  boy 
who  paid  your  father's  doctor's  bills  and  got  him  a 
good  job  a  few  weeks  ago  is  none  other  than  John 
Blake." 

Brown  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  Every  drop 
of  blood  drained  swiftly  from  his  face,  leaving  it  a 
ghastly  white;  and  in  the  eyes  which  were  riveted 
on  the  older  man  was  a  look  of  such  utter,  dreadful 
horror  that  Macdonald,  angry  as  he  was,  felt  a  quick 
impulse  of  regret  at  the  tone  he  had  taken. 

He  had  been  too  wrought  up  over  the  whole  affair, 
however,  to  relent  easily,  so  he  made  no  com- 
ment, even  deriving  a  slight  satisfaction  from  the 
very  evident  misery  mirrored  on  Brown's  expressive 
face. 

For  a  long  time  the  boy  stood  there  without  moving 
a  muscle.  Then  he  reached  out  blindly  and  caught 
hold  of  the  desk  to  steady  himself.  A  moment  later, 
he  turned  slowly  and  looked  questioningly  at  Frank 
Merriwell,  who  had  hitherto  taken  no  part  in  the  con- 
versation, but  who  had  paid  close  attention  to  every- 
thing that  went  on. 


154  The  Irony  of  Fate. 

"Yes,  it's  quite  true,  George,"  the  latter  said  quietly. 
"Of  course  you  didn't  know  it,  for,  as  I  understand 
from  Doctor  Macdonald,  young  Blake  did  not  wish  his 
name  mentioned.  Still,  I  think  you  might  have  con- 
sidered what  the  effects  were  going  to  be  before  you 
spread  this  story  about  the  school.  Don't  think  for 
an  instant  that  I  am  condoning  Blake's  deception. 
That  isn't  what  I  mean  at  all.  I  simply  want  you  to 
ask  yourself  if  you  are  showing  the  right  spirit  in 
being  so  eager  to  bring  about  the  humiliation  of  a 
boy  who  has  always  behaved  toward  you  in  a  straight, 
decent  manner." 

Brown's  lips  twitched.  His  drawn,  white  face 
showed  the  utter  misery  which  filled  his  soul. 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  uncertain  tone,  "I'm  the 
greatest  cur  alive.  If  I  had  only  known!  Oh,  Mr. 
Merriwell,  you  can't  think  how  awful  it  is!  Why, 
he— he's " 

With  a  sudden  irrepressible  choke,  he  turned  his 
back,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  there  was  silence  in 
the  room. 

At  length,  when  Brown  had  recovered  his  control, 
Frank  set  to  work  and,  by  skillful  questioning,  sought 
to  get  at  the  motive  which  had  governed  the  boy's 
conduct  He  knew  there  must  have  been  a  powerful 
one  of  some  sort  Boys,  as  a  rule,  do  not  do  what 
he  had  done  out  of  mere  caprice  and  thoughtlessness. 
Generally  they  can  be  trusted  to  show  an  even  finer 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  than  their  elders,  and 
their  code  of  honor,  while  it  may  seem  peculiar  in 
some  respects,  is,  as  a  whole,  a  splendid  one. 

Little  by  little  the  whole  story  came  out,  and,  as  it 


The  Irony  of  Fate.  155 

was  revealed  in  broken,  fragmentary  answers,  Merry 
saw  that  there  was  no  need  to  show  Brown  where 
he  had  gone  wrong.  In  that  single  moment  of  gasping 
surprise,  it  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had  learned  more 
about  himself  than  he  had  ever  known  before. 

"It  wasn't  his  being  ashamed  of  his  father  that 
made  me  do  it  all,  sir,"  he  finished  contritely.  "It 
wasn't  even  the  way  he  treated  me,  or  rather  the  way 
I  made  myself  believe  he  had  treated  me.  I  was  just 
envious.  He  had  everything  that  I  hadn't,  and  never 
would  have.  He  was  so  much  pleasanter  and  more 
popular  than  I,  so  much  better  in  every  way,  that  I 
was  jealous  of  all  these  things  and  disliked  him.  And 
all  the  time  it  was  he  who  had  done  everything  for 
me.  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  go  on  my  knees  to  him  and 
tell  him  how  sorry  I  am." 

A  shadowy  smile  flitted  across  Merriwell's  face. 

"I  don't  imagine  he  would  like  that  in  the  least,"  he 
said  quietly. 

Brown  sighed  deeply  and  disconsolately. 

"No,"  he  agreed,  "I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do,  but  I 
wish  there  was  some  way  of  showing  him  that  I  know 
what  a  cur  I've  been." 

"The  simplest  way  is  usually  the  best,"  Frank  sug- 
gested. "If  it  will  be  any  consolation  to  you,  I  may 
say  "that  the  experience  will  do  neither  of  you  any 
permanent  harm.  It  has  opened  Blake's  eyes  to  the 
folly  of  which  he  has  been  guilty,  and,  if  he  can  live 
down  the  incident  right  here  in  the  school,  he  will  have 
proved  his  force  of  character.  As  for  yourself 
— well,  I  fancy  you're  wiser  than  you  were  an  hour 
ago." 


156  The  Irony  of  Fate. 

Kindly  as  the  words  were,  they  did  not  console  the 
boy  to  any  great  extent. 

As  he  left  the  office,  a  little  later,  and  walked  slowly 
through  the  hall,  he  had  never  been  so  utterly  miser- 
able in  his  life. 

He  had  often  dreamed  of  the  time  when  he  might 
meet  his  benefactor  face  to  face.  In  those  dreams  he 
had  always  pictured  himself  as  doing  some  slight 
favor  for  the  unknown  which  might,  in  a  measure, 
repay  a  little  of  the  debt  he  owed. 

The  truth  was  so  different — so  horribly  different. 
Instead  of  repaying  the  debt,  he  had  made  it  vastly 
greater.  From  the  very  beginning  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, he  had  worked  against  the  fellow  who  had  done 
so  much  for  him.  Instead  of  worshiping  him  and  try- 
ing to  please  him,  he  had  hated  him  with  all  the 
strength  he  had,  and  had  ended  by  bringing  down 
upon  his  head  the  ridicule  of  the  whole  school. 

He  was  beneath  contempt  and  not  fit  to  associate 
with  decent  people.  It  would  have  been  better  far 
had  he  remained  in  the  canning  factory  and  never 
been  given  this  chance  for  working  evil. 

It  was  with  such  bitter  thoughts  as  these— exag- 
gerated by  the  surprise  and  shock  of  everything  which 
had  happened — that  he  made  his  way  slowly  and  ir- 
resolutely to  the  south  corridor,  and  paused  before 
the  door  of  Blake's  room. 

He  hated  desperately  to  go  in,  not  because  he  did 
not  wish  to  humble  himself,  but  because  he  felt  that 
Blake  could  never  forgive  him.  It  must  be  done, 
however.  Otherwise  he  would  never  have  a  moment's 
peace.  And  so  he  lifted  his  hand  and  knocked. 


The  Irony  of  Fate.  157 

"Come  in!"  called  the  familiar  voice. 

Brown  obeyed  and  stood  hesitating  on  the  threshold. 
The  room  was  in  almost  as  great  a  disorder  as  it  had 
been  that  first  day.  Crates  and  boxes  were  strewn 
about;  some  of  the  pictures  were  on  the  floor,  while 
only  one  or  two  remained  hanging  on  the  walls. 

Blake  himself  stood  in  the  midst,  his  sleeves  rolled 
up  and  a  hammer  in  one  hand.  As  he  recognized  his 
caller,  he  straightened  up  with  a  slight  shadow  on  his 
face. 

For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke.  Brown  had 
a  queer  choking  sensation  in  his  throat  and  his  lips 
were  dry.  He  moistened  them  several  times  and 
swallowed  hard  before  he  could  utter  a  word. 

"I've — just  found  out,"  he  stammered,  at  last.  "I 
— I  never  knew  before,  Blake.  I  wish  I  could  tell 
you  how — how  beastly  sorry  I  am  for — everything. 
I'd  rather  have  cut  off  my  right  hand  than  have  done 
jwhat  I  did." 

Blake  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  returned.  "It's  all  over 
and  done  with,  so  what's  the  use  of  our  worrying 
about  it?" 

Brown  choked.  This  truly  was  the  gentleman  of 
the  .finer  instinct. 

"But  I  can't  help  worrying,"  he  protested.  "After 
what  you  did  for  me,  I'm  a  regular  cur." 

"You  didn't  know  then,"  Blake  commented.  "I 
dare  say  you  had  excuse  enough.  I  fancy  my  manner 
rubbed  you  the  wrong  way  a  good  bit." 

"It  wasn't  your  manner,"  retorted  Brown.  "I 
thought  so,  but  it  wasn't  that  at  all.  I  was  just  envious 


158  The  Irony  of  Fate, 

and  jealous  because  you  had  everything  which  I  didn't 
have.  You  see,  you  have  no  idea  how  dirty  mean 
I  was." 

Blake  smiled  faintly. 

"Oh,  well,  let's  drop  it  Let's  shake  hands  and  call 
it  quits." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Brown  gripped  it  tightly. 
As  he  did  so,  his  eyes  fell  from  his  companion's  face 
to  the  boxes  scattered  about  the  room,  and  a  fresh 
pang  of  alarm  shot  through  him. 

"You're  not — going  to  leave,  are  you?"  he  asked 
swiftly. 

Blake  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said  shortly. 

Brown  gave  a  sigh  of  relief." 

"These  boxes — I  thought ".he  stammered. 

"I'm  just  packing  up  a  few  things  to  send  away," 
his  companion  explained  shortly. 

Then,  and  only  then,  did  Brown  realize  that  it  was 
the  "ancestors"  which  were  being  packed.  And  his 
face  flamed  scarlet.  Not  for  the  world  would  he  have 
intentionally  referred  to  something  which  would  be 
extremely  distasteful  to  the  fellow  he  had  wronged 
so  greatly. 

Blake  saw  his  embarrassment  and  quickly  divined 
the  cause. 

"I  did  mean  to  cut  it  all  and  get  out,"  he  volunteered, 
balancing  the  hammer  on  his  palm.  "But  I  had  a 
talk  with  Mr.  Merriwell  this  morning  which  made  me 
change  my  mind.  He  showed  me  that  the  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  stick  it  out  here  and  live  down  my 
— foolishness.  That's  what  I'm  going  to  do." 


The  Irony  of  Fate.  159 

The  hammer  slipped  from  his  hand  and  crashed  to 
the  floor.  He  bent  to  pick  it  up,  and  when  he  raised 
his  head  his  face  was  rather  red. 

"Seeing  as  you're  here,  Brown,"  he  went  on  care- 
lessly, "perhaps  you'll  give  me  a  hand  crating  these 
things.  It's  a  bigger  job  than  I  thought." 

Ancestors  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  were  soon  for- 
gotten by  Merriwell's  lads,  however,  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  a  new  sport  at  the  school  in  the  form  of  avia- 
tion. A  young  aviator  came  to  the  front  in  a  most 
unexpected  way,  and  for  a  time  all  the  talk  of  the 
whole  school  was  about  bird  men  and  means  of  flying. 
It  began  with  the  discord  between  Burton  and  Rudd. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE     BEGINNING    OF    IT. 

The  discord  between  Otis  Burton  and  Morgan  Rudd 
dated  from  the  very  day  of  'their  entrance  to  Farnham 
Hall  at  the  beginning  of  the  spring  term. 

Just  what  caused  it  would  be  hard  to  determine. 
Perhaps  the  fact  of  their  arriving  on  the  same  train 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  The  journey  was  long 
and  somewhat  tedious;  and  Burton  was  the  kind  of 
fellow  who  is  never  so  happy  as  when  displaying  the 
brilliancy  of  his  wit  and  the  biting  character  of  his 
repartee,  at  the  expense  of  some  one  else. 

Under  the  circumstances  it  was  not  unnatural  that  he 
should  make  Morgan  Rudd  the  butt  of  his  ridicule ;  for, 
of  the  five  fellows  who  journeyed  from  New  York  to 
Bloomfield  together,  Rudd  was  by  far  the  most  unusual 
in  manner  and  appearance. 

He  was,  to  begin  with,  rather  lank  and  loose-jointed, 
with  a  shambling  sort  of  gait,  and  a  habit  of  bumping 
awkwardly  into  things.  His  hair  was  decidedly 
too  long,  obscuring  his  collar  in  the  back  and  pro- 
truding in  an  untidy  mass  under  his  hat  brim,  so  as 
almost  to  cover  the  straight,  black  brows  which  nearly 
met  over  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  and  gave  an  odd, 
sinister  expression  to  his  thin,  narrow  face. 

His  eyes  were  gray,  and,  except  at  rare  intervals, 
they  were  almost  expressionless.  It  was  not  the  va- 
cancy of  stupidity,  but  rather  the  look  of  a  person 


The  Beginning  of  It.  161 

whose  mind  is  absorbed  to  an  extraordinary  degree  by 
some  secret  thought.  That  impression  was,  in  fact, 
borne  out  by  everything  about  him;  his  prolonged  fits 
of  absent-mindedness,  the  quick  start  he  gave  whenever 
he  was  spoken  to,  the  very  way  in  which  he  slumped 
down  in  his  seat  on  the  train  and  sat  staring  out  of 
the  window  for  hours  at  a  time  without  changing  his 
position  a  particle. 

Such  a  character  was  almost  sure  to  arouse  Otis 
Burton's  ridicule,  and  he  did  not  fail  to  take  advan- 
tage of  this  opportunity  for  relieving  the  tedium  of 
the  journey,  and  at  the  same  time  establishing  a  repu- 
tation for  a  wit. 

The  other  three  boys,  all  younger  than  either  Burton 
or  Rudd,  were  thus  pleasantly  entertained,  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  ride,  by  the  sparkling  witticisims  di- 
rected by  Burton  at  the  lone  occupant  of  the  opposite 
seat. 

He  criticized  the  boy's  clothes,  which,  though  of 
good  cut  and  quality,  had  been  carelessly  put  on  and 
showed  signs  of  untidiness.  He  drew  attention  to  the 
frowsy  hair  in  terms  of  such  cutting  banter  that  his 
auditors  were  convulsed.  He  applied  to  the  lanky 
youth  such  names  as  "Fido,"  "Beanpole,"  "Spider," 
"Legs,"  and  others  of  a  like  nature,  until  the  three  un- 
sophisticated ones  fairly  shrieked  with  mirth  and  de- 
cided that  he  was  the  funniest  fellow  they  had  ever 
seen. 

All  this  was  very  gratifying  to  Burton,  and  for  a 
time  satisfied  that  craving  for  applause  which  was 
one  of  the  salient  features  of  his  make-up.  Presently, 
however,  the  entertainment  began  to  pall.  In  spite  of 


1 62  The  Beginning  of  It. 

the  fact  that  his  remarks  had  all  been  uttered  in  a  per- 
fectly audible  voice,  the  pitch  of  which  had  gradually 
increased,  Morgan  Rudd  paid  no  more  heed  to  them 
than  if  he  had  been  stone-deaf. 

At  first  Burton  thought  the  lanky  chap  was  sham- 
ming; but  at  last  he  became  convinced  that  there  was 
no  fake  about  it.  Rudd  was  manifestly  so  absorbed 
in  his  own  thoughts  that  he  heard  not  a  single  one  of 
the  remarks  which  so  entranced  the  other  boys. 

Burton  was  provoked  and  decidedly  aggrieved.  One 
might  as  well  waste  time  and  mental  effort  on  a  wooden 
image  as  on  this  impassive  youth  who  neither  heard 
nor  saw  anything  which  went  on. 

For  a  time,  Burton  redoubled  his  efforts  and  in- 
creased the  opprobrium  of  his  epithets,  but  to  no  avail. 
At  last,  stung  by  the  cessation  of  applause  from  his 
satellites,  who  had  likewise  perceived  the  situation,  and 
were  becoming  somewhat  bored,  he  arose,  and,  with  a 
significant  wink  at  his  companions,  crossed  the  aisle 
and  dropped  down  beside  Rudd. 

He  waited  a  moment,  or  two,  expectantly ;  but  Rudd 
did  not  turn  his  head  Annoyed,  Burton  began  a 
series  of  contortions  which  were  supposed  to  be  a 
clever  take-off  on  the  lanky  chap's  attitude  and  ap- 
pearance. He  was  in  the  midst  of  a  peculiarly  effective 
grimace  when  Rudd,  suddenly  and  quite  without  warn- 
ing, turned  and  regarded  him  with  a  cool,  calm,  discon- 
certing gaze  which  so  surprised  the  witty  youth  that 
he  lost,  for  an  instant,  the  use  of  his  ready  tongue. 

After  a  swift  scrutiny  of  Burton's  face,  the  boy 
with  the  scraggy  hair  glanced  hastily  around  the  car 
as  if  looking-  for  some  one. 


The  Beginning  of  It.  163 

"Find  him?"  inquired  Burton,  with  a  grin,  when 
the  other  had  turned  back. 

"Why,  no,"  Rudd  answered  mildly.  "At  least,  I 
don't  see  anybody  who  looks  like  one." 

Burton  frowned. 

"One  what?"  he  demanded. 

Rudd  smiled  propitiatingly. 

"A  keeper,"  he  explained.  "You'll  excuse  me  if  I'm 
wrong,  but  you  looked  so  queer  making  those  funny 
faces  that  I  thought  perhaps  you  weren't  just — a — 
right  in  your " 

He  hesitated,  and  Burton  heard  a  suppressed  snicker 
from  the  boys  across  the  aisle,  which  brought  the 
color  flaming  into  his  face  and  made  his  eyes  flash 
angrily.  There  is  a  vast  difference  between  being 
laughed  with  and  laughed  at. 

"What  you  need  is  a  nurse  to  travel  round  with 
you,  or  you'll  land  in  the  bughouse  yourself,"  he 
snapped,  making  the  only  retort  he  could  think  of  at 
the  moment. 

Rudd's  eyes  widened. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  he  asked  seriously.  "I 
don't  suppose  you'd  consider  taking  the  position,  would 
you?" 

Burton  laughed  jeeringly. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  he  retorted.  "I'm  not  look- 
ing for  that  kind  of  a  job." 

"Too  bad,"  murmured  Rudd,  with  a  side  glance  at 
the  three  small  boys  on  the  opposite  seat.  "You  seem 
to  have  done  so  well  with  the  kindergarten  that  I 
thought  perhaps  you  might " 

It  was  not  necessary  to  finish  the  sentence.    Burton 


164  The  Beginning  of  It. 

made  the  mistake  of  losing  his  temper,  and,  after  a 
few  scathing  but  rather  silly  remarks,  to  which  the 
lanky  chap  paid  no  heed  whatever,  he  returned  to  his 
seat  in  a  rage. 

From  that  moment  he  had  it  in  for  Morgan  Rudd 
and  set  about  systematically  to  jeer  and  ridicule  him. 

He  did  not  stop  to  think  that  he  had  brought  down 
on  his  own  head  the  gentle  little  retorts  which  had 
angered  him  so.  He  only  remembered  that  he  had 
been  made  a  fool  of  before  a  lot  of  kids. 

He  laughed  at  the  boy's  clothes  and  his  generally 
untidy  appearance.  He  made  fun  of  his  spindly 
shanks  and  generally  poor  development,  which  was  so 
apparent  in  the  gymnasium  work.  He  jeered  at  his 
inability  to  play  games,  and  called  him  "sissy"  and 
other  names  of  a  like  nature.  He  tried  his  best,  in 
fact,  to  get  the  other  boys  down  on  him,  even  going 
so  far  as  to  insinuate  that  he  was  a  coward  and  did  not 
go  in  for  baseball  or  any  other  game  because  he  was 
afraid  of  being  hurt. 

He  succeeded  passably  well  in  molding  the  opinion 
of  a  good  many  fellows;  for  Burton  was  the  sort  of 
chap  who  throws  a  tremendous  bluff  and  gets  away 
with  it. 

He  had  a  pleasant  and  extremely  adaptable  manner, 
being  hail  fellow  well  met  with  his  equals,  slightly 
deferential  and  delicately  flattering  with  those  who 
were  important  in  the  school,  and  graciously  con- 
descending to  the  small  fry. 

In  this  manner,  coupled  with  a  certain  amount  of 
superficial  cleverness,  he  succeeded  in  creating  the  im- 
pression that  Morgan  Rudd  was  more  or  less  of  a  fool. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

JHE  GOAD   OF    CURIOSITY. 

Perhaps  Rudd  himself  was  a  good  deal  to  blame  for 
the  half -tolerant,  half -contemptuous  manner  with 
which  he  came  at  last  to  be  generally  regarded. 

He  was,  to  say  the  least,  a  bit  "queer."  He  made 
absolutely  no  effort  to  become  on  friendly  terms  with 
any  of  the  fellows.  Indeed,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
he  was  short  and  brusque,  repulsing  their  well-meant 
attempts  to  draw  him  out  in  a  manner  which  did  not 
encourage  further  advances. 

He  did  his  work  only  passably  well  and  spent  the 
minimum  amount  of  time  possible  in  the  gymnasium. 

During  the  periods  of  recreation,  he  had  a  way  of 
disappearing  from  sight,  sometimes  going  for  long, 
solitary  walks  through  the  woods  and  surrounding 
country,  but  usually  seeking  his  room  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible after  dinner  and  not  emerging  until  supper  time. 

What  he  did  there  no  one  knew ;  and  for  a  time  his 
movements  were  a  matter  of  indifference.  At  last, 
however,  the  curiosity  of  various  boys  who  had  noth- 
ing particular  to  occupy  their  minds  became  aroused. 

Egged  on  by  Burton,  who  was  always  on  the  alert 
to  find  something  new  in  the  lanky  chap's  behavior 
which  would  be  productive  of  ridicule,  a  number  of 
them  would  steal  up  to  the  corridor  every  now  and 
then  and  take  turns  peering  through  Rudd's  keyhole, 
and  listening  at  the  crack  in  his  door. 


1 66  The  Goad  of  Curiosity. 

Their  efforts  were  quite  futile  and  resulted  only 
in  increasing  their  ardor  for  information.  The  line 
of  vision  through  the  keyhole  was  very  limited,  in- 
cluding at  best  only  the  back  of  a  chair  and  a  stretch 
of  blank  wall  beyond. 

More  than  half  the  time,  not  even  that  much  was 
visible,  Rudd  having  a  habit  of  leaving  his  closet  door 
open,  thus  obscuring  everything  to  a  tantalizing  degree. 

The  sense  of  hearing  was  productive  of  little  more 
information.  Occasionally  the  sounds  of  hammering 
came  from  the  room,  varied  by  scraping  and  snipping 
and  other  puzzling  noises  which  made  it  appear  that 
Rudd  was  engaged  in  making  something ;  though  what 
that  something  was  no  one  could  conjecture. 

The  greater  part  of  the  time,  however,  the  room  was 
silent  as  the  grave.  Had  they  not  seen  its  occupant  go 
into  it,  they  would  never  have  supposed  any  one  to 
be  there. 

"It  get's  me,"  Burton  said  irritably,  one  day,  after 
they  had  spent  an  hour  in  futile  endeavor  and  had 
then  retired  discomfited,  but  with  curiosity  more  keen 
than  ever.  "The  fool's  bughouse,  in  my  opinion." 

Ralph  Shearman  scratched  his  head  in  a  puzzled 
manner. 

"He  don't  seem  as  if  he  was  off  his  nut,"  he  ob- 
jected. "I  got  talking  to  him  the  other  day,  and  he's 
sensible  enough  when  he  takes  the  trouble  to  be." 

"Oh,  they  all  have  spells  when  they  seem  sane," 
jeered  Burton.  "If  he  isn't  nutty,  what  in  thunder 
makes  him  shut  himself  up  in  his  room  all  the  time 
and  do  nothing?" 

"How  do  we  know  he  isn't  doing  anything?"  put  in 


The  Goad  of  Curiosity.  167 

Christy  Brown.  "We  can't  see  a  blessed  thing  through 
that  keyhole." 

"No,  nor  hear  a  sound,"  retorted  Burton.  "Ever 
since  the  hammering  and  filing  stopped  last  week,  he 
might  as  well  be  dead  for  all  the  noise  he  makes.  Now 
if  you  can  give  any  good  reason  why  a  fellow  would 
spend  three  or  four  hours  every  afternoon,  and  good- 
ness knows  how  many  at  night,  just  locked  in  his  room 
doing  nothing,  I'll  admit  that  he's  sane,  or  anything 
else  you  please." 

"Maybe  he's  boning,"  Brown  suggested  hesitatingly. 

Burton  laughed  scornfully. 

"That's  likely,  isn't  it?"  he  scoffed.  "Why,  he's 
the  thickest  thing  you  ever  saw  in  the  classrooms. 
Half  the  time  he  hasn't  looked  at  a  book." 

"That's  right,"  admitted  Brown.  "Well,  I  give  up. 
But  I'd  sure  like  to  know  what's  going  on  in  there. 
Isn't  there  any  way  we  can  get  into  the  room?" 

"He  locks  the  door  whenever  he  goes  out,"  Shear- 
man spoke  up.  "I've  tried  it  any  number  of  times." 

"How  about  the  window?"  suggested  Brown. 
"Couldn't  we  get  a  ladder  and  climb  up  there  some 
evening?" 

"How  are  we  going  to  manage  that?"  demanded 
Burton.  "All  the  ladders  about  the  place  are  locked 
up  in  the  basement  at  night." 

There  was  a  prolonged  pause,  which  was  broken  by 
a  sudden  exclamation  from  Brown. 

"By  Jove !"  he  exclaimed.  "There's  nothing  to  pre- 
vent our  getting  down  from  above  on  the  end  of  a  rope. 
Why,  your  room's  directly  above  his,  Ralph.  The 
thing  would  be  a  cinch." 


1 68  The  Goad  of  Curiosity. 

"So  it  is,"  Shearman  agreed  slowly.  He  did  not 
particularly  like  the  idea  of  dangling  in  mid-air. 

Burton,  however,  was  instantly  enthusiastic. 

"By  George,  Chris !"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  a  pretty 
good  idea  of  yours.  The  three  of  us  could  manage  it 
nicely.  Two  would  be  plenty  to  lower  the  other  down 
and  pull  him  up  again  after  he  has  seen  into  the 
room." 

"But  who's  going  to  be  the  one  to  go  down?" 
Shearman  inquired  anxiously. 

"Why,  Brown's  the  lightest,"  Burton  answered 
readily.  "He'd  better  do  that  part." 

"Nothing  doing,"  Brown  put  in  hastily.  "I  don't 
see  why  I  should  do  it  any  more  than  either  of  you." 

"You're  the  lightest,"  Burton  explained  propitia- 
tingly. 

"By  about  six  pounds,"  retorted  Brown.  "We  com- 
pared weights  in  the  gym  last  week." 

"Ralph  and  I  are  stronger,  though,  and  could  pull 
you  up  easy,"  Burton  protested. 

Brown  doubled  his  right  arm,  distending  the  muscles. 

"Are  you,  though  ?"  he  said  belligerently.  "Feel  of 
that.  Hard  as  iron.  I  reckon  I  can  pull  all  you  can. 
No,  we'll  match  for  it,  or  I  stay  out." 

Finding  that  no  argument  could  move  him,  the 
others  gave  in  gracefully  and  proceeded  with  great 
caution  to  match  coins  for  the  undesirable  position. 
When  the  "honor"  fell  to  Burton  he  had  difficulty  in 
restraining  his  annoyance.  He  was  no  more  anxious 
to  make  the  descent  than  Brown,  but  he  could  not  back 
out  very  well  at  this  stage  of  the  game,  so  he  sub- 
mitted to  the  inevitable  as  gracefully  as  possible. 


The  Goad  of  Curiosity.  169 

"Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  make  much  difference  which 
I  do,"  he  said  nonchalantly.  "It's  a  heap  less  work 
being  let  down  and  pulled  up.  Let's  get  started  after 
a  rope.  We  want  to  pull  this  off  to-night,  if  we  can." 

By  considerable  maneuvering  they  were  able  to  sneak 
a  coil  of  stout  rope  out  of  the  basement  tool  room,  and 
conveyed  it  at  once  to  Shearman's  room,  where  it  was 
hidden  carefully  in  the  closet. 

Having  discussed  in  detail  the  manner  of  procedure 
for  that  evening,  they  departed  for  the  football  field, 
very  much  pleased  with  themselves,  and  looking  for- 
ward with  considerable  satisfaction  to  the  final  solu- 
tion of  the  mystery  which  had  bothered  them  so  long. 

The  moment  the  stroke  of  nine  terminated  the  even- 
ing study  period,  they  made  a  bee  line  for  Shearman's 
room  and,  having  carefully  locked  the  door,  began  their 
preparations.  The  rope  was  brought  out  and  a  loop 
made  at  one  end  large  enough  for  Burton  to  slip  his 
arms  through. 

"By  gee!"  Brown  exclaimed  suddenly,  as  he  watched 
his  companion  trying  the  effect.  "You'll  be  sore  as 
blazes  with  that  rope  chafing.  What  we  want  is  a 
couple  of  small  pillows  to  go  under  your  arms  and 
relieve  the  strain." 

"That's  so,"  agreed  Burton,  somewhat  chagrined 
that  he  had  not  thought  of  it.  "Let's  have  two  small 
sofa  cushions,  Ralph." 

But  it  developed  that  Shearman  had  nothing  of  the 
sort,  not  yet  having  equipped  his  couch.  The  bed 
pillows  being  much  too  large,  and  nothing  else  strik- 
ing them  as  a  good  substitute,  Brown  was  forced  to 
steal  forth  to  his  own  room  for  the  necessary  articles. 


170  The  Goad  of  Curio:  ity. 

He  returned  safely  without  having  encountered  any 
one  on  the  way.  And  the  preparations  proceeded 
swiftly. 

Glancing  out  of  the  window,  Burton  could  sec  that 
Rudd's  room  was  still  brightly  lighted,  and  to  his 
curious  ears  came  the  faint  sound  of  filing. 

"He's  working  at  it  again,  whatever  it  is,"  Burton 
announced,  in  a  joyful  whisper.  "We'd  better  start 
right  away.  Take  a  couple  of  turns  around  the  corner 
of  the  bed,  and  then  the  rope  won't  slip." 

They  did  so  and  tested  it  by  pulling  hard.  Instantly 
the  bed  began  to  move  forward,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
shove  the  bureau  over  to  hold  it  in  place  before  they 
could  proceed. 

At  last,  however,  everything  was  in  good  shape,  and 
Burton  slipped  the  rope  under  his  arms,  adjusted  the 
pillows  carefully,  and  then  walked  to  the  window. 

"Be  sure  you  let  down  slow,"  he  cautioned.  "Lucky 
his  window  isn't  right  underneath  this  one,  because 
I'll  come  down  alongside  of  it,  instead  of  directly 
in  front.  When  I  get  so's  I  can  see  in,  I'll  give  a  hiss 
and  you  hold  me  there.  When  I  want  to  come  up, 
I'll  give  two  hisses.  Remember  now,  let  her  go  easy. 
Not  more  than  an  inch  or  so  at  a  time." 

The  others  agreed  in  low  tones,  and  Burton  pro- 
ceeded to  slip  carefully  over  the  sill.  He  hesitated 
some  time  before  he  finally  let  go  his  hold  on  the 
solid  wood. 

The  ground  seemed  very  far  below,  and  he  was  sud- 
denly seized  with  a  fear  that  the  rope  might  not  be 
as  strong  as  it  looked.  He  pictured  to  himself  the 
parting  of  the  strands,  the  sudden  plunge  and  horrible 


The  Goad  of  Curiosity.  171 

landing  on  the  ground  below,  crushed  and  mangled. 
In  that  moment  he  berated  himself  for  ever  having 
attempted  such  a  thing.  If  there  was  only  some  way 
of  getting  out  of  it  even  now " 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  a  voice  impatiently, 
from  the  room  behind  him.  "Why  don't  you  start?" 

"I'm  going  to,"  he  returned,  in  a  whisper. 

It  was  too  late  to  back  out. 

With  a  shudder,  he  let  go  his  hold  on  the  sill  and 
began  to  move  slowly  downward. 

Presently  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  not  as 
bad  as  he  had  expected.  The  rope  held,  with  scarcely 
a  creaking;  and  his  downward  progress  was  slow  and 
comparatively  steady — a  bare'ly  perceptible  slipping,  so 
careful  were  the  two  boys  above  to  do  the  thing  right. 

He  was  much  more  comfortable,  too,  than  he  had 
expected  to  be,  thanks  to  the  pillows  under  his  anus; 
and,  before  long,  he  quite  overcame  his  fear  and  began 
to  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  the  discovery  which 
would  come  very  soon. 

He  had  reached  a  point  where  his  knees  were  about 
on  a  level  with  the  top  of  the  window,  when  suddenly 
the  lowering  motion  ceased,  and  an  instant  later  the 
taut  rope  was  jarred  violently. 

Burton's  heart  leaped  into  his  mouth  and  he  could 
hardly  suppress  a  cry  of  fear.  What  had  happened? 
Was  the  rope  going  to  part  and  let  him  fall? 

With  wildly  thudding  heart — for  he  was  decidedly 
lacking  in  nerve,  for  all  his  bluster — he  hung  there 
waiting.  Presently  the  jarring  stopped,  but  an  odd, 
disconcerting  noise  like  scuffling  came  from  the  room 
above,  which  continued  for  a  moment,  then  ceased. 


172  The  Goad  o£  Curiosity. 

Puzzled  and  not  a  little  frightened,  Burton  waited  a 
moment  or  two  before  twisting  himself  around  and 
glancing  upward.  The  window  above  was  quite  empty, 
and  the  room  he  had  just  left  was  silent  as  a  tomb. 

"Ralph!"  he  called,  in  a  stealthy  whisper.  "Chris! 
What's  the  matter  ?" 

No  answer.  Not  a  sound  of  any  sort  came  from  the 
window,  and  a  cold  chill  began  to  run  up  and  down 
Burton's  spine. 

He  could  not  understand  what  had  happened.  They 
must  be  there.  They  would  never  go  away  and  leave 
him  dangling  helpless  in  mid-air. 

He  called  again,  this  time  a  little  louder,  but  he  did 
not  dare  raise  his  voice  for  fear  of  bringing  Rudd 
to  his  window  and  betraying  everything. 

Still  there  was  no  answer ;  and  a  horrid  fear  began  to 
pervade  the  mind  of  Otis  Burton  that  he  had  been 
deserted.. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   FELLOW    WHO   DANGLED. 

Kt  first  the  helpless  youth  decided  that  "Peanut" 
Hall,  the  young  and  zealous  tutor  who  was  in  charge 
of  the  corridor  above,  had,  in  some  manner,  discovered 
what  was  going  on. 

Instantly,  however,  he  rejected  the  idea  as  impos- 
sible. Had  that  been  the  case,  the  man  would  have 
been  only  too  eager  to  see  who  was  on  the  end  of  the 
rope,  that  he  might  punish  this  infraction  of  discipline. 

The  next  supposition  was  that  Brown  and  Shearman 
were  playing  a  joke  on  him.  The  thought  filled  him 
with  rage,  which  increased  with  the  growing  conviction 
that  he  was  in  no  actual  danger  of  being  hurled  to 
the  ground  by  the  parting  of  the  rope. 

The  rope,  in  fact,  seemed  only  too  strong.  It  bound 
him  tightly  under  the  arms  and,  though  he  presently 
conceived  the  idea  of  climbing  back  on  it,  hand  over 
hand,  he  soon  found  that  he  could  not  even  reach 
around  and  grasp  it. 

Furious  by  this  time,  he  began  to  call  again  in  sup- 
pressed tones,  threatening  the  two  fellows  with  all 
sorts  of  dire  penalties  if  they  did  not  instantly  pull  him 
up,  and  upbraiding  them  in  terms  which  were  distinctly 
more  forcible  than  polite. 

The  effect  was  startling.  Suddenly,  from  various 
windows  near  by,  a  chorus  of  mocking  remarks  floated 
out  into  the  night. 


The  Fellow  Who  Dangled. 

"Listen  to  the  mocking  bird !" 

"Oh,  naughty,  naughty!" 

"Ain't  he  perfectly  awful !" 

"He's  a  real  ba-ad  man !" 

"Where'd  he  learn  all  those  lovely  words  ?'* 

"Who  is  he,  anyhow?" 

"Yes!  who  is  he?" 

"What's  he  doing  there  ?" 

"Can't  you  see,  you  chumps?  He's  practicing  for 
the  rope-climbing  contest." 

"Then  why  don't  he  climb?" 

"Maybe  he's  resting." 

"Oh,  no!  He  doesn't  have  to  rest.  Just  look  at 
those  arms.  Why,  he's  got  Sandow  skinned  a  mile." 

"Maybe  he'll  give  us  an  exhibition.  Won't  you 
climb  for  the  lady,  Willy  ?  Be  nice  and  show  us  how 
you  do  it  ?" 

"Too  bad!    I'm  afraid  he's  shy/' 

Fairly  foaming  at  the  mouth  with  fury,  Burton 
writhed  and  twisted  and  endeavored  to  get  a  hold  on 
the  rope,  quite  forgetting  his  former  fear  of  falling. 
Unfortunately,  the  loop  was  a  rather  large  one,  and 
the  knot  was  at  his  back,  some  distance  above  his 
head,  so  that  his  efforts  were  quite  futile. 

The  jeering  voices  continued  to  sound  from  all  sides ; 
but,  though  he  was  aching  to  retort,  he  did  not  dare 
say  a  word.  Apparently  they  had  not  yet  recognized 
him,  and,  if  he  could  only  escape  from  his  unfor- 
tunate predicament,  there  was  a  bare  chance  that  they 
might  never  know  who  he  was. 

What  had  happened  he  could  only  guess.  In  some 
manner,  the  boys  had  become  wise  to  what  he  was  at- 


Jhe  Fellow  Who  Dangled.  175 

tempting,  and  either  they  had  induced  Shearman  and 
Brown  to  join  them,  or  else  they  had  seized  the  two 
fellows  and  tied  them  up  so  that  they  could  not  in- 
terfere. 

Remembering  the  scuffling  noise,  he  inclined  to  the 
latter  supposition.  But,  whichever  was  the  truth,  he 
was  in  a  most  humiliating  position. 

A  prisoner  here  until  his  tormentors  chose  to  re- 
lease him,  he  had  not  the  slightest  hope  that  they 
would  fail  to  discover  his  identity.  They  would  keep 
him  dangling  at  their  own  sweet  pleasure,  taunting  him 
the  while  with  the  sarcastic  jibes  and  jeers  vrhich  were 
even  now  driving  him  almost  frantic ;  and  then,  when 
they  were  quite  tired  of  their  entertainment,  they  would 
draw  him  up  to  Shearman's  room,  to  find  out  just  who 
it  was  that  had  afforded  them  so  much  amusement. 

Burton  shivered  at  the  thought.  He  would  be  the 
laughingstock  of  the  entire  school,  for  such  a  chance 
as  this  of  making  fun  does  not  often  occur.  He,  who 
had  enjoyed  ridiculing  others  so  much,  would  now 
suffer  in  his  turn;  and,  as  he  realized  what  was  in 
store  for  him,  he  felt  that  he  would  give  anything  he 
possessed  if  he  could  only  escape  it 

He  even  seriously  considered  cutting  the  rope  and 
taking_his  chances  in  a  drop  to  the  ground.  It  was  not 
so  very  far,  and  almost  anything  would  be  better  than 
being  found  out.  But  when  he  glanced  downward  into 
the  shadowy  darkness  below  he  did  not  dare  risk  it. 

So  he  hung  there,  struggling  silently,  now  and  then, 
to  grip  that  knot  which  the  tips  of  his  fingers  could 
barely  touch,  maddened  by  the  mocking  voices  from  all 
about,  with  cold  chills  of  apprehension  coursing  up  and 


176  The  Fellow  Who  Dangled. 

down  his  spine,  until,  of  a  sudden,  there  came  that 
jarring  vibration  on  the  rope  again. 

His  heart  leaped  into  his  throat  as  he  glanced  swiftly 
upward.  They  were  going  to  pull  him  up;  in  a  mo- 
ment more  everything  would  be  discovered.  As  he 
looked,  two  heads  were  thrust  cautiously  over  the  sill, 
and  an  instant  later  a  faint  whisper  came  down  to  him. 

"Otis!" 

It  was  Shearman's  voice,  and  a  thrill  of  hope  shot 
through  Burton.  Had  they  possibly  managed  to  es- 
cape? Was  there  yet  a  chance  for  him  to  get  away 
unrecognized  ? 

He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  gave  two  sharp 
hisses.  He  did  not  notice  that  the  light  in  Rudd's  room 
had  gone  out  an  instant  before. 

To  his  joy,  the  response  was  instant.  He  began  to 
ascend  at  a  speed  which  was  far  more  rapid  than  his 
descent  had  been.  Evidently  whoever  was  at  the  other 
end  of  the  rope  realized  the  necessity  for  haste. 

As  he  reached  the  window  ledge,  he  gripped  it  with 
both  hands,  and  in  another  moment  was  in  the  room. 

"We  couldn't  help "  began  Brown  excitedly. 

Burton  cut  him  short.  Not  an  instant  must  be  lost 
in  getting  out  of  the  room  and  down  to  his  own,  on 
the  next  floor. 

"They  don't  know  who  I  am,"  he  gasped.  "If  either 
of  you  tell,  I'll  kill  you." 

Without  another  word,  he  crossed  the  room  on  the 
run,  jerked  open  the  door  and  darted  into  the  hall. 
In  another  second  he  reached  the  top  of  the  narrow 
stairway  which  led  to  his  own  corridor  and  disap- 
peared into  the  darkness. 


The  Fellow  Who  Dangled.  177 

He  was  not  an  instant  too  soon.  Scarcely  had  he 
vanished  when  several  doors  were  hastily  opened  and 
shadowy  forms  made  a  concerted  but  noiseless  rush 
to  the  scene  of  the  little  drama.  To  their  disappoint- 
ment and  chagrin,  they  found  only  the  two  boys  whom 
they  had  trussed  up,  but  who  had  managed,  somehow, 
to  untie  their  bonds. 

"Where  is  he?"  demanded  Jack  Ranleigh,  who  was 
substitute  quarter  back,  but  who  loved  a  joke  even 
better  than  football. 

"Gone,"  returned  Shearman  laconically. 

On  the  way  to  the  window,  some  one  stumbled  over 
the  rope  and  announced  that  the  fellow  had  told  the 
truth.  When  this  fact  had  been  made  certain,  Ranleigh 
turned  to  the  two  boys  who  were  regarding  the  in- 
truders with  malicious  satisfaction. 

"Who  was  it,  Chris?"  he  asked  ingratiatingly. 
"Come  on  and  tell  us." 

"Go  to  grass !"  returned  Brown.  "Find  out  your- 
self, if  you're  so  keen  to  know." 

And  that  was  the  last  word  from  both  of  them. 
Neither  threats  nor  persuasion  could  induce  them  to 
reveal  the  name  of  the  fellow  who  had  dangled  for  a 
good  half  hour  at  the  end  of  that  rope;  and  the  older 
fellows  were  finally  forced  to  give  it  up  and  return  to 
their  rooms  with  the  uncomfortable  conviction  that  they 
had  bungled,  and  that  the  joke  was  not  altogether  on 
the  unknown. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE   LAUGHINGSTOCK   OF  THE   SCHOOL. 

Next  morning  the  story  spread  quickly  over  the  en- 
tire school,  and  the  question  in  every  boy's  mouth  was 
the  identity  of  the  fellow  who  had  been  the  butt  of  the 
joke. 

Burton  was,  of  course,  suspected,  on  account  of  in- 
timacy with  Shearman  and  Brown;  but  there  were  a 
dozen  other  boys  on  equally  friendly  terms  with  the 
two,  so  that  the  question  was  very  far  from  being  an- 
swered. 

Indeed,  Burton  threw  such  a  successful  bluff  as  to 
having  been  one  of  those  who  sang  out  from  his  win- 
dow, and  professed  so  keen  a  curiosity  as  to  who  the 
unknown  might  be,  that  suspicion  was  more  or  less 
diverted. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  thankful  when  the  day  had 
passed  without  any  further  evidence  coming  to  light; 
and,  by  the  following  morning,  he  came  to  the  pleasing 
conclusion  that  he  was  fairly  safe. 

With  this  reassuring  thought  came  a  return  of  the 
desire  to  carry  out  the  scheme  which  had  resulted  so 
disastrously,  and  discover  what  Morgan  Rudd  was  do- 
ing in  his  room.  Through  some  intricate  process  of 
reasoning,  Burton  laid  the  blame  of  his  humiliation  at 
Rudd's  door,  and  this  increased  the  grudge  he  held 
against  the  fellow,  making  him  the  more  anxious  to 
obtain  additional  ammunition  for  further  assaults. 


The  Laughingstock  of  the  School.      179 

Access  to  Rudd's  room  through  the  window  being 
now  out  of  the  question,  the  door  was  the  only  ingress 
left.  To  be  sure,  this  was  always  kept  locked,  whether 
the  taciturn  chap  was  in  his  room  or  not,  but  the  matter 
of  a  key  ought  not  to  be  insurmountable.  The  style 
was  an  ordinary  one,  and,  though  all  the  locks  through- 
out the  school  were  different,  blank  keys  of  the  right 
size  were  to  be  had  at  the  village  locksmiths;  or  it 
might  even  be  possible  to  secure  one  of  the  master 
keys. 

The  last  method  was  rejected  as  being  too  risky. 
But  early  that  afternoon,  Christy  Brown  hastened  to 
the  village  and  returned  as  speedily  as  he  could  with 
a  blank  key. 

They  had  expected  to  wait  till  the  next  morning  for 
the  operation;  but  when  Rudd  was  seen  leaving  the 
building  and  striking  off  toward  the  woods,  it  was  de- 
cided to  go  ahead  at  once.  The  key  was  carefully 
coated  with  wax  from  a  candle  and,  when  placed  in 
the  lock  and  turned  firmly,  a  fair  impression  appeared, 
which  was  at  once  attacked  with  a  file. 

The  process  took  some  time.  They  filed  in  Burton's 
room  and  every  now  and  then  had  to  sneak  out  to 
see  if  it  fitted.  At  last,  to  their  joy,  it  turned  stiffly, 
and  they  hastened  to  slip  into  the  room  and  close  the 
door  behind  them. 

The  eager  curiosity  with  which  they  looked  about 
can  be  imagined.  The  place  was  almost  as  bare  as  a 
barn.  Not  only  had  no  attempt  at  "fixing  up"  been 
made,  but  it  was  one  of  the  un tidiest  rooms  any  of  the 
boys  had  ever  seen.  Clothes  lay  about  here  and  there 
without  order.  Shoes  and  soiled  linen  were  on  the 


180      The  Laughingstock  of  the  School. 

floor  or  banked  against  the  closet  door  as  if  they  had 
been  thrown  there  and  then  forgotten. 

In  amazing  contrast  to  the  general  disorder  was  the 
surpassing  neatness  of  the  table,  which  had  been  drawn 
over  to  the  one  side  of  the  window  and  was  covered 
with  various  tools,  little  stacks  of  well-seasoned  wood, 
pieces  of  linen,  and  a  number  of  other  things,  the  use 
of  which  the  boys  could  not  even  guess. 

"Gee!  This  is  a  great  outfit,"  exclaimed  Brown, 
picking  up  a  small  file  which  was  as  delicate  as  a 
jeweler's  implement.  "But  what  in  time  does  he  use 
it  for?" 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  know,"  Burton  answered,  pawing 
here  and  there  on  the  table.  "I  don't  see  a  darned 
thing " 

"Look  here,  fellows — quick!"  cried  Shearman  ex- 
citedly. 

He  had  been  attracted  by  something  bulky  on  the 
bed  which  was  covered  with  a  large  sheet  of  paper. 
He  had  not  hesitated  to  remove  the  paper,  for  further 
inspection.  As  the  other  two  hastened  to  his  side, 
they  both  gave  exclamations  of  astonishment. 

The  thing  which  rested  on  the  white  coverlet,  and 
which  had  unquestionably  been  the  cause  of  Rudd's 
many  days  and  nights  of  toil,  was  a  small  model  of  an 
aeroplane,  the  workmanship  of  which  was  so  perfect 
that  both  Shearman  and  Brown  were  moved  to  com- 
ment upon  it  with  considerable  enthusiasm. 

Burton's  lips  curled  scornfully,  however.  He  could 
see  nothing  good  emanating  from  the  hands  of  the  boy 
he  so  disliked,  and  he  at  once  proceeded  to  throw  cold 
water  on  his  friends'  involuntary  praise. 


The  Laughingstock  of  the  School.       181 

"Bah !"  he  sneered.  "That  shows  he's  crazy.  Think 
of  any  sane  chap  wasting  all  the  time  he  has  on  a  kid's 
toy." 

"It  looks  better  than  that  to  me,"  protested  Brown, 
bending  over  to  examine  it  more  closely.  "Everything 
about  it's  perfect,  even  the  engine.  Why,  I  never  saw 
anything  like  it  in  my  life." 

"You  haven't  seen  much,  then,"  growled  Burton  ill- 
temperedly.  "They  sell  things  like  that  at  all  the  toy 
stores  in  New  York." 

"I'll  bet  they're  not  like  this,"  put  in  Shearman. 
"Why,  it  looks  to  me  as  if  the  thing  could  fly." 

"For  about  two  yards,"  sneered  Burton.  "Come  on, 
and  let's  get  out.  We  don't  want  to  be  pinched  here. 
This  proves  I  was  right.  The  chump's  as  loony  as  they 
make  'em.  He's  wasted  days  and  days  making  some- 
thing he  could  buy  better  for  a  couple  of  dollars." 

Silenced,  though  not  quite  convinced,  his  compan- 
ions followed  him  out  of  the  room  and  downstairs. 
It  was  later  than  they  had  thought,  for  the  fellows 
were  beginning  to  come  in  from  the  football  field,  and 
the  main  hall  below  was  filled  with  laughing,  joking 
groups. 

Hesitating  on  the  last  step,  Burton's  eyes  lit  up  with 
a  keen,  malicious  joy  as  they  fell  upon  the  figure  of 
Morgan  Rudd  just  entering  the  door.  Here  was  a 
chance  which  might  not  soon  occur  again  to  give  his 
enemy  a  dig  before  the  whole  crowd,  and  he  hastened 
forward  to  meet  the  boy  in  the  very  midst  of  the  mob. 

"Hello,  Rudd !"  he  said  loudly,  and  with  a  decidedly 
contemptuous  inflection.  "Been  doping  out  any  more 
flying  machines  lately  ?" 


182      The  Laughingstock  of  the  School. 

The  lanky  chap  gave  a  slight  start,  and  instantly 
his  expression  became  watchful. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  what  you're  driving  at," 
he  returned  quietly. 

"Ho!  ho!"  laughed  Burton.  "Modest,  eh?  Surely 
you're  not  ashamed  of  the  great  work." 

He  turned,  grinning,  to  the  near-by  fellows,  who 
were  glancing  curiously  in  his  direction. 

"Didn't  know  we  had  an  inventor  in  our  midst, 
did  you?"  he  chuckled.  "Why,  Rudd,  here,  has  in- 
vented an  aeroplane  which  is  going  to  revolutionize 
the  science.  Before  long  you'll  see  him  circling  all 
over  the  place  as  easy  as  the  rest  of  us  walk.  When 
are  you  going  to  start  work  on  the  real  thing,  Rudd?" 

The  frowsy-haired  chap  made  no  reply,  but  con- 
tinued to  regard  his  tormentor  with  a  curiously  fixed 
scrutiny  which  seemed  to  irritate  Burton  considerably, 
and  made  him  drop  his  bantering  tone. 

"Are  you  really  fool  enough  to  think  you'll  do  any- 
thing with  that  machine  of  yours  ?"  the  latter  demanded 
scornfully. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  any  of  your  business  what  I 
think,"  Rudd  retorted  calmly. 

Burton's  lips  curled. 

"Humph !"  he  grunted.  "I'll  guarantee  you'll  never 
get  off  the  earth  in  it." 

A  shadowy  smile  passed  over  Rucld's  thin  face. 

"At  least  I  won't  dangle  in  mid-air,  and  not  be  able 
to  get  down,"  he  commented,  with  a  slightly  significant 
emphasis. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  struck  Burton  a  blow  across  the 


The  Laughingstock  of  the  School.       183 

cheek.  The  color  flamed  into  his  face,  and  he  clenched 
his  hands  tightly.  How  much  did  the  fellow  know? 
How  had  he  found  out  ?  Burton's  first  impulse  was  to 
cut  short  the  conversation  instantly,  and  retreat  with 
what  grace  he  could.  But,  almost  as  soon  as  the 
thought  came  into  his  mind,  he  realized  how  impos- 
sible it  was.  Already  the  fellows  around  were  prick- 
ing up  their  ears  and  crowding  forward.  The  only  way 
of  escape  was  by  brazening  it  out. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  laughed  loudly.  "No,  you  certainly 
won't.  If  you  ever  get  up  in  the  air  you'll  have  to 
be  held  there  by  a  pole,  or  something." 

Rudd's  eyes  were  still  fixed  steadily  on  his.  They 
seemed  calm  and  placid,  but  in  their  depths  there  lurked 
a  glimmer  of  amusement  which  made  Burton  long  to 
strike  him  down  then  and  there. 

"Even  that's  better  than  hanging  at  the  end  of  a 
rope,  isn't  it  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

Burton's  face  grew  redder,  and  he  scowled  fiercely. 

"What  d'you  mean  by  that?"  he  demanded  belliger- 
ently. "If  you  think  that  I " 

His  voice  was  drowned  in  the  concerted  shriek  of 
joy  which  went  up  from  all  around. 

"Oh,  you  dangler!" 

"You  rope  climber !" 

"Hi,  Bill!  Here's  the  moke  that  was  doing  the 
Romeo  stunt  the  other  night  on  the  rope." 

"Is  that  straight  ?" 

"Sure !    Take  a  squint  at  his  face." 

"Whatcher  blushing  so  for,  Bertie  ?" 

"You  bad  thing!" 

"Those  naughty  swear  words !" 


184      The  Laughingstock  of  the  School. 

"He  ought  to  have  his  mouth  washed  out  with 
soap." 

Burton  glanced  around  at  the  circle  of  grinning  faces 
in  helpless  fury.  Instantly  he  realized  the  utter  futility 
of  denial.  They  would  not  believe  him. 

He  wanted  to  lash  out  at  them  with  bitter,  taunting 
words,  but  he  managed,  luckily  for  himself,  to  refrain. 
They  would  only  welcome  such  an  outburst,  and  return 
it  tenfold. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  stood  speechless,  his  face 
taking  on  a  purplish  tinge.  Then  he  whirled  suddenly, 
and,  tearing  through  the  crowd,  raced  back  upstairs, 
the  jeers  and  laughter  ringing  in  his  ears  and  the 
mocking  words  following  him  as  he  ran. 

When  he  reached  the  safety  of  his  own  room  and 
turned  the  key,  he  stood  for  a  moment  panting  slightly, 
his  whole  face  working  with  the  fury  which  possessed 
him. 

Rudd  had  brought  this  thing  about,  and  he  should 
suffer.  He  would  be  revenged  if  it  took  every  min- 
ute of  his  time  for  the  remainder  of  the  year.  He 
would  make  that  lanky  scarecrow  sorry — bitterly  sorry 
• — he  had  ever  meddled  with  what  did  not  concern  him. 

He  did  not  stop  to  think  that  Rudd  was  only  hitting 
back  in  a  perfectly  fair  manner.  He  did  not  consider 
that  the  chap  had  kept  his  own  counsel  for  three  days, 
and  would  doubtless  have  kept  it  forever,  but  for  Bur- 
ton himself.  He  only  knew  that  he  had  been  made 
the  laughingstock  of  the  entire  school,  and  he  swore  a 
solemn  oath  that  he  would  be  amply  revenged. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE     RUINED     MODEL* 

Bart  Hodge,  Merry's  chief  assistant,  dropped  into  a 
chair  in  the  office  and  folded  his  arms. 

"There's  something  queer  about  this  fellow  Rudd, 
Frank,"  he  announced  seriously. 

Merriwell  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"In  what  way  ?"  he  asked. 

"In  every  way,"  Hodge  returned  emphatically. 
"He's  about  the  most  perplexing  character  I've  had  to 
do  with  in  a  long  while.  Have  you  paid  much  atten- 
tion to  him?" 

Frank's  eyes  twinkled,  but  his  face  was  serious. 
He  was  used  to  Bart's  manner  of  looking  upon  the 
dark  side  in  sizing  up  a  boy. 

"I've  noticed  that  he  keeps  a  good  deal  by  him- 
self," he  answered  quietly.  "I  haven't  spoken  to  him 
about  it,  because  I  was  hoping  he'd  get  over  it  of  his 
own  accord.  It's  always  better  if  they  can  overcome 
this  shyness  without  any  interference." 

Hodge  frowned. 

"It  isn't  shyness  that's  troubling  him,"  he  said  darkly. 
"It's  something  worse." 

"Worse  ?"  queried  Merry.  "Just  what  do  you  mean, 
Bart?" 

"He's  got  something  on  his  mind,"  Hodge  said  em- 
phatically. "Most  of  the  time  he  goes  around  in  a 
walking  trance.  His  lessons  are  never  more  than  half 


186  The  Ruined  Model. 

prepared,  and  in  the  gym  he  never  does  a  stroke  of 
work  more  than  he  actually  has  to,  and  does  that  in  a 
half-hearted  manner.  Since  he's  been  here,  he  hasn't 
even  gone  near  the  athletic  field,  let  alone  evinced  the 
faintest  desire  to  play  anything.  And  you  know  that 
even  the  worst  muffs  toss  a  ball  now  and  then,  and  al- 
ways show  up  for  the  games,  if  they  do  nothing  else. 
Depend  upon  it,  Frank,  he's  brooding  over  something." 

Merriwell  straightened  up  in  his  chair,  now  thor- 
oughly interested.  It  was  just  possible  that  there 
might  be  something  in  Bart's  point  of  view.  He  him- 
self had  noticed  some  of  these  pecliarities  in  Morgan 
Rudd,  but  he  had  so  far  been  too  busy  to  make  a  care- 
ful study  of  this  particular  boy. 

"Have  you  any  notion  of  what's  on  his  mind?"  he 
asked. 

"Nothing  exactly  definite,"  Hodge  answered.  "But 
from  the  way  he  behaves,  I  should  think  he  might  be 
worrying  over  something  he's  done.  It  might  even  be 
a  theft,  or  something  like  that.  What  sort  of  a  char- 
acter did  his  people  give  him?  Suppose  you  look  up 
the  correspondence  and  see." 

There  was  no  need  for  Frank  to  look  up  the  letters, 
however.  That  marvelous  memory  of  his  seemed  to 
retain  the  facts  concerning  every  boy  in  the  school. 

"I  don't  recall  any  question  of  his  honesty,"  he  re- 
turned slowly.  "His  father  said  he  was  lazy  and 
shiftless,  and  couldn't  be  made  to  study  or  take  any 
exercise.  He  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  shut  up  in 
his  room,  or  else  taking  solitary  walks,  from  which 
he  was  quite  as  apt  to  return  long  after  supper  was 


The  Ruined  Model.  187 

over.  He  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of  time,  and  no 
sense  of  responsibility." 

"Exactly  as  he  does  here,"  Hodge  said  triumphantly. 
"He  spends  every  afternoon  in  his  room,  or  else  off 
in  the  woods.  He's  been  late  to  supper  any  number  of 
times.  Now,  what  does  he  do  with  himself?  And 
what's  he  got  on  his  mind?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know." 

"That's  something  we  shall  have  to  find  out,"  Merry; 
said,  smiling.  "I'm  glad  you  brought  this  up,  Bart. 
I've  been  so  busy  with  plans  for  the  new  building  and 
a  lot  of  other  things,  that  I've  had  no  time  to  give  to 
the  boys  individually.  I'll  look  up  Rudd  at  once  and 
see  if  I  can  get  at  the  bottom  of  the  mystery." 

It  thus  happened  that  the  next  afternoon,  as  the 
lanky,  dreamy-eyed  fellow  emerged  from  the  dormi- 
tory (Hrectly  after  dinner,  he  found  the  head  of  the 
school  just  passing  the  door,  apparently  having  come 
from  the  gymnasium. 

"How  are  you,  Morgan?"  Merry  said  pleasantly.; 
"Going  for  a  tramp?" 

"Ye-es,  sir,"  returned  Rudd,  much  embarrassed  by; 
the  encounter.  "I  was  going  down — er — by  the  lake."1 

"Good !  We  may  as  well  walk  along  together,  then.- 
I  have  to  look  at  one  of  the  shells  which  was  broken! 
yesterday." 

Rudd  acquiesced  because  there  was  nothing  else  to 
do.  He  would  much  rather  have  gone  his  way  alone, 
however.  The  presence  of  the  older  man  bothered 
him,  and  disturbed  his  train  of  thought. 

This  fact  was  perfectly  apparent  to  Frank;  but  he 
paid  no  attention  to  it,  chatting  with  Rudd  in  an.easy^ 


tt88  The  Ruined  Model. 

natural  manner  about  various  matters  of  school  inter- 
est,  and  exercising  to  the  utmost  his  extraordinary  fac- 
ulty of  putting  a  fellow  at  his  ease. 

Presently  Rudd  began  to  feel  more  comfortable,  and 
before  long  he  found  himself  thawing  to* a  degree  of 
which  even  he  was  unaware.  Merriwell  realized  it  to 
the  full,  however,  and  in  that  short  walk  he  learned 
more  of  the  boy's  inner  nature  than  one  would  have 
supposed  possible. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  boathouse  where  the 
shells  were  kept,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
Hodge  was  wrong.  Rudd  was  not  brooding  over  any- 
thing disgraceful.  He  was  intensely  absorbed  in  some- 
thing; but  just  what  that  something  was  remained,  for 
£he  moment,  a  question. 

Leaving  his  young  companion  standing  on  the  edge 
of  the  lake,  Frank  went  into  the  boathouse,  looked  over 
the  damaged  shell,  and  decided  that  it  could  be  repaired 
in  the  school  carpenter  shop. 

He  was  gone  nearly  ten  minutes,  but  when  he 
returned,  Rudd  stood  just  where  he  had  left  him,  his 
eyes  staring  out  across  the  lake,  where  a  brisk  breeze 
had  stirred  the  water  into  choppy  little  wavelets  from 
Iwhich  the  sun  glinted  in  dazzling,  intermittent  flashes. 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  Frank's  approach,  and 
the  latter  stood  quietly  beside  him  for  several  moments, 
wondering  amusedly  how  long  the  boy  would  remain 
in  that  trancelike  condition.  Suddenly,  without  so  much 
as  turning  his  head,  the  lanky  youth  spoke : 

"A  mechanical  stability  device  ought  to  make  fly- 
ing about  as  safe  as  automobiling." 


The  Ruined  Mode!.  189 

Merry  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  had  heard 
aright. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  exclaimed,  in  utter  as- 
tonishment. 

Rudd  gave  a  start,  and  turned  round. 

"Oh!"  he  gasped,  the  color  rising  in  his  face.  "I— • 
I  forgot.  I  didn't  mean  to " 

"Never  mind  that,"  Merriwell  put  in,  more  quietly* 
"Just  tell  me  what  you  meant." 

The  boy  dropped  his  eyes,  and  fumbled  with  the 
top  button  of  his  coat  in  an  embarrassed  manner. 

"You'll — laugh,  of  course,"  he  faltered.  "I  wag! 
thinking  of  aeroplanes.  They'd  be — a  lot  safer  if  a 
device — was  invented  to — to  keep  them  from  tipping 
• — something  which  would  work  automatically." 

Frank  drew  a  long  breath.  Like  a  flash,  he  had 
realized  that  this  was  an  answer  to  the  thing  which 
had  been  puzzling  him. 

"Captain  Baldwin  once  told  me,"  he  said  quietly* 
"that  when  the  perfect  engine  was  invented,  and  a»1 
automatic  stabilizing  device,  the  conquest  of  the  air 
would  be  complete." 

Rudd  threw  back  his  head  and  darted  a  swift,  ques- 
tioning glance  at  Merriwell. 

"You  know  Captain  Baldwin?"  he  asked  excitedly* 
"Thomas  Scott  Baldwin?" 

Frank  nodded. 

"He  and  I  are  very  good  friends,"  he  smiled. 

"Cracky !"  exclaimed  the  lad.  "He's  the  most  wofN 
derful  man  in  the  world.  I'd  give  anything  to  see 
him  some  time.  They  call  him  the  father  of  aviation^ 
don't  they?" 


&90  The  Ruined  Model. 

"Yes.  He's  probably  more  liked  and  respected  than 
any  other  inventor  in  that  line.  His  name  isn't  so 
well  known,  perhaps,  to  the  general  public  as  some 
others,  for  he  never  indulges  in  spectacular  flights  or 
anything  of  that  sort.  He  gives  all  his  time  to  the 
science  of  flying,  working  for  the  future  more  than 
for  any  present  fame.  A  number  of  years  ago,  before 
he  regularly  took  up  the  study  of  aeroplanes,  he  spent 
some  time  here  in  Bloomfield  working  on  dirigibles 
for  the  government." 

The  boy  sighed  enviously. 

"Gee !  I  wish  I'd  been  here  then,"  he  said.  "Have 
you  seen  him  since,  sir?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I've  visited  him  a  number  of  times  at 
Mineola.  In  fact,  we  studied  together,  and  all  I  know 
about  aeroplanes  came  from  him." 

"You've  studied  aeronautics?"  Rudd  burst  out,  his 
eyes  sparkling  and  his  whole  face  alive  with  interest. 

"Yes." 

"Driven  an  aeroplane?" 

"Yes,  several." 

"Monoplane,  or  biplane?" 

Some  men  would  have  resented  the  boy's  curt, 
brusque  questions  as  lacking  in  the  proper  respect; 
but  Frank  realized  the  situation  perfectly.  The  boy's 
mind  was  so  full  of  the  subject  which  occupied  every 
waking  moment,  that  he  had  quite  forgotten  their 
relative  positions.  He  was  talking  as  one  man  to 
another,  thinking  only  of  the  thing  he  wanted  to 
know,  and  without  the  slightest  idea  of  being  im- 
pertinent. 

"Both,"  Merry  replied,  with  a  slight  smile. 


The  Ruined  Model. 
"By  Jove!"  sighed  Rudd.     "I  wish- 


He  stopped  abruptly,  and  his  jaw  dropped.  For  & 
moment  he  stood  there  looking  at  Merriwell,  with 
the  color  flaming  into  his  face.  Then  his  eyes  sought 
the  ground. 

"I — beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  faltered.  "I — I  for-! 
got  who — I  was  talking  to.  I— didn't  mean  to  be 
fresh." 

Merriwell  laughed  lightly. 

"I  know  you  didn't,  Morgan,"  he  answered.  "Whali 
is  it  you  wish?" 

Encouraged  by  the  man's  tone,  Rudd  glanced  up 
hopefully. 

"I've  got  a  model  of  a  monoplane  in  my  room,"  he 
explained.  "I've  been  working  on  it  for  a  long  while. 
I — think  I've  got  something  which  will  keep  the  ma- 
chine stable." 

To  Frank,  it  seemed  a  sheer  impossibility  that  a 
mere  boy  could  have  made  a  discovery  of  such  tre- 
mendous moment  in  the  science  of  flying;  but  he  let  no 
sign  of  this  skepticism  appear  in  his  face  or  his 
manner. 

"If  you  have  done  that,"  he  said  gravely,  "you've 
succeeded  in  doing  something  which  has  so  far  baffled 
every  inventor." 

"I  know  it  sounds  foolish,  and  all  that,"  Rudd  ad- 
mitted. "But  I've  gone  over  it  and  over  it,  and  I  can't 
see  why  it  won't  work.  If  you  would  just  look  it 
over " 

"Of  course  I  will,"  Frank  put  in  readily.  "Suppose 
we  do  it  at  once.  I  am  most  interested." 


The  Ruined  Model. 

To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  more  than  skeptical  as  to 
the  real  value  of  the  invention.  He  had  seen  too 
often  the  wild  enthusiasm  and  perfect  faith  of  an  in- 
ventor over  something  he  had  discovered,  which  later 
turned  out  to  be  quite  worthless. 

But  there  was  no  question  that  he  was  interested 
in  Rudd  himself.  During  the  discussion  of  aeroplanes, 
the  boy's  face  had  become  transformed.  The  dreamy, 
almost  listless  expression  gave  place  to  a  look  of  keen 
intelligence.  His  whole  face  lighted  up  with  the  en- 
thusiasm which  possessed  him,  and  Merriwell  felt  in- 
tuitively that  the  youth  had  a  brain  which  was  very 
much  out  of  the  common. 

The  impression  was  strengthened  as  they  walked 
briskly  back  to  the  school.  Rudd  was  no  longer  silent 
and  dull,  but  talked  about  his  beloved  hobby  in  a  man- 
ner which  was  more  than  precocious,  and  which 
(Showed  that  his  grasp  of  the  subject  was  positively 
(amazing. 

Together  they  entered  the  room,  and,  as  the  lanky 
chap  hastened  over  to  the  bed  and  dropped  down  on 
his  knees  beside  it,  Merry  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly 
at  the  dreadful  untidiness  of  the  place.  The  next  in- 
stant, however,  his  attention  was  distracted  by  a  gasp 
from  the  boy,  followed  by  a  stifled  exclamation  of 
horror. 

He  had  drawn  a  large  pasteboard  box,  without  the 
cover,  from  under  the  bed,  and  was  staring  into  it 
with  a  kind  of  paralyzed  despair.  As  Frank  stepped 
quickly  forward  and  glanced  over  the  lad's  shoulder, 
he  drew  his  breath  swiftly. 

The  box  was  filled  with  a  mass  of  broken  wood  and 


The  Ruined  Model.  193 

torn  fabric.  Bits  of  iron  and  pieces  of  twisted  wire 
lay  all  about  in  confusion.  If  the  thing  had  eve* 
been  a  model,  it  was  one  no  longer.  It  had  been 
smashed  into  bits  so  completely  that  scarcely  a  square 
inch  of  the  original  remained  to  show  what  it  might 
have  beettj 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
MERRIWELL'S   OFFER. 

For  a  moment  there  was  utter  silence,  as  the  two 
stood  looking  at  the  wreck.  Then  Rudd  rose  slowly 
to  his  feet  and  glanced  at  Merry,  his  face  white  and 
the  muscles  of  his  jaw  rigid  as  stone.  The  pupils  of 
his  eyes  were  scarcely  larger  than  pin  heads. 

"You  see,"  he  said  simply,  but  in  a  voice  which 
yv&s  not  quite  steady. 

Merriwell's  brows  were  contracted. 

"You  left  it  all  right?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes." 

"It's  contemptible !"  said  Merry.  "The  idea  of  ma- 
liciously destroying  a  thing  which  has  taken  weeks  to 
jput  together!  Have  you  any  suspicion " 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  bit  his  lips.  For  a  mo- 
ment or  two  there  was  silence,  and,  glancing  at  the  boy 
but  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  Frank  saw  in  an  instant 
that  Rudd  had,  at  least,  a  notion  as  to  who  was  re- 
sponsible for  the  outrage.  Wondering,  he  waited  to 
see  what  the  lad  was  going  to  say. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  sir,"  Rudd  returned  slowly,  "I'd 
rather  not  tell  you.  I'm  not  sure,  and  so  you  see  it 
wouldn't  do  to  give,  you  the  wrong  idea." 

Merriwell  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  he  said.  "I  shall  do  my 
best,  however,  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  it  Meanwhile," 
he  glanced  down  at  the  box  again  and  shrugged  his 


Merriwell's  Offer.  193 

shoulders,  "I'm  afraid  this  is  quite  ruined.  Perhaps 
you  can  explain  your  device  from  the  drawings  you 
must  have  made  of  it." 

Rudd's  face  brightened  a  bit. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  he  agreed.  "I'm  afraid  it  won't 
be  so  easy  to  make  it  clear,  though." 

He  led  the  way  to  his  table,  and  Frank  inwardly 
commented  on  the  contrast  between  the  neatness  here 
and  the  general  disorder  of  the  room.  The  plans 
which  the  boy  presently  produced  were  drawn  with 
exquisite  skill  and  attention  to  detail,  which  showed 
that,  at  the  bottom,  he  had  an  orderly  mind. 

For  nearly  an  hour  they  went  over  the  device  to- 
gether, and,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  Frank  was  some- 
what impressed.  The  thing  was  on  entirely  novel 
lines,  and  looked  distinctly  good.  Other  similar  in- 
ventions had  seemed  good,  however,  so  he  did  not 
allow  himself  to  be  too  sanguine  or  to  bank  a  great 
deal  on  the  success.  There  was  no  question  in  his 
mind,  though,  about  giving  the  ingenious  youth  every 
faculty  for  continuing  his  work  and  constructing  a 
new  model. 

"There's  a  small  room  off  the  pattern  shop,"  he 
said,  after  the  plans  were  put  away  and  he  had  seated 
himself,  "which  you  may  use  for  this  work.  We 
wilt  see  that  a  good  lock  which  can't  be  picked  is 
placed  on  the  door,  to  guard  against  a  repetition  of  this 
affair.  Regarding  the  model,  I  should  say  you  had 
better  make  it  about  twice  as  large,  Morgan.  It  will 
take  longer,  but  you'll  have  something  which  will  be 
a  great  deal  easier  to  try  out.  Suppose  you  make  the 
plane  spread  six  feet,  and  the  other  parts  in  propor- 


196  Merriwell's  Offer. 

tion.  The  matter  interests  me  tremendously,  and  you 
may  as  well  be  working  on  something  like  this  as 
spending  your  time  on  more  or  less  useless  articles  in 
the  manual-training  course.  There's  just  one  condi- 
tion I  want  to  make,  however," 

He  paused  an  instant,  still  studying  the  boy. 

"You  must  not  lose  yourself  in  this  work,  Mor- 
gan," he  went  on.  "You  must  spend  only  a  certain 
number  of  hours  a  day  on  it,  and  make  a  determined 
effort  to  put  it  entirely  out  of  your  mind  the  rest 
of  the  time." 

Rudd's  face  fell. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can,  sir,"  he  protested.  "My 
mind's  so  full  of  it  that  I'm  always  thinking  it  over." 

"Exactly,"  Frank  agreed.  "It  must  stop,  however. 
Otherwise  you'll  very  soon  become  hipped  on  the  sub- 
ject. A  man's  mind  isn't  meant  to  be  developed  in 
only  one  direction.  It  must  be  broadened  and  given 
variety  or  it  becomes  abnormal.  When  you  are  work- 
ing over  your  invention  it  is  right  and  proper  that 
you  should  think  of  nothing  else,  but  when  you  are 
away  from  it  you  must  forget  it  entirely.  Mingle 
more  with  the  other  boys,  play  baseball " 

"Gracious!"  Rudd  exclaimed,  aghast.  "I  never 
played  ball  in  my  life." 

"Then  it's  high  time  you  learned,"  Merry  smiled. 
"I'm  afraid  that  side  of  your  education  has  been  en- 
tirely neglected.  You  simply  must  give  your  mind 
variety.  Even  Edison,  hard  as  he  works  over  his  in- 
ventions, never  spends  all  his  time  on  one  thing.  When 
he  finds  himself  becoming  fagged,  he  drops  one  thing 
and  takes  up  another  of  a  totally  different  character. 


Merriwell's  Offer.  197 

Since  you  are  not  interested  in  any  other  problems, 
you  must  do  what  is  even  better,  attend  to  the  de- 
velopment of  your  body,  and  learn  to  like  the  games 
and  sports  which  every  normal  boy  plays  as  a  matter 
of  course.  The  mere  physical  exertion,  and  the  fact 
that  you  are  pitting  your  brain  against  another's,  will 
do  more  toward  broadening  you  than  anything  I  can 
think  of.  Doesn't  that  sound  reasonable?" 

Rudd  nodded  slowly. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  suppose  it  does,"  he  agreed.  "Only  it's 
going  to  be  mighty  hard  to  begin." 

"Most  habits  are  hard  to  break,"  Frank  smiled. 
"And  this  is  nothing  but  a  habit.  Now,  suppose  we 
lay  out  a  rough  sort  of  schedule  for  you  to  follow. 
The  manual-training  course  calls  for  two  hours'  work 
a  day.  That,  of  course,  you  will  devote  to  your 
model;  and  I  think  perhaps  another  hour,  taken  the 
first  thing  after  dinner,  can  be  added  to  it.  Taken  in 
connection  with  your  studies  and  gym  work,  that  is 
all  the  time  you  ought  to  spend  indoors." 

"Only  three  hours?"  Rudd  said,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
appointment. 

"Not  a  minute  more,"  Merry  returned  emphatically. 
"The  rest  of  the  afternoon  you  must  be  outdoors, 
building  up  your  body  and  giving  your  brain  some- 
thing else  to  think  about.  Go  out  to  the  field  and 
start  in  by  having  a  catch  with  another  boy.  Watch 
all  the  regular  games,  and  you'll  soon  become  enthusi- 
astic. Get  in  with  the  fellows,  and  learn  to  take  an 
interest  in  everything  which  goes  on  at  the  school. 
Learn  tennis,  and  go  in  for  track  work.  With  your 
build,  you  ought  to  be  rather  speedy." 


198  Merriwell's  Offer. 

Rudd  sighed.  The  prospect  did  not  appeal  to  him 
in  the  least;  but  he  was  sensible  enough  to  see  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  reason  in  it. 

"When  do  you  want  me  to  start  ?"  he  asked. 

"You  may  as  well  go  out  this  very  afternoon," 
Merry  advised.  "You  mustn't  get  discouraged  if 
things  don't  go  smoothly  at  first.  Keep  at  it  just  as 
you've  kept  at  the  stabilizing  device,  and  you'll  make 
good.  What's  more,  you'll  find  your  brain  fresher 
by  a  good  deal  when  you  go  back  to  your  model,  and 
you'll  be  able  to  accomplish  a  lot  more  than  you  can 
now  in  three  hours." 

"All  right,  sir,"  Rudd  agreed,  without  enthusiasm. 
*T11  do  as  you  say." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   AWAKENING  OF   MORGAN   RUDD. 

Probably  the  most  difficult  thing  Morgan  Rudd  had 
ever  done  in  his  life  was  to  walk  out  onto  the  field 
and  find  a  boy  who  was  willing  to  have  a  catch  with 
him.  Certainly  it  was  the  most  unpalatable. 

Extraordinary  as  it  may  seem,  he  had  never  held  a 
baseball  in  his  hand  before,  save  once  or  twice  when 
he  was  forced  to  pick  one  up  and  return  it  to  the 
players,  and  then  he  had  rolled  it  along  the  ground, 
instead  of  throwing  it. 

He  was  one  of  those  precocious  youths  who  con- 
sider such  things  a  waste  of  valuable  time,  without 
realizing  that,  in  turning  down  everything  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  pastime,  he  was  missing  something  which 
he  could  never  make  up. 

He  started  from  the  school  at  a  rapid  walk,  with 
the  one  idea  of  getting  through  with  an  unpleasant 
duty  as  soon  as  possible.  But  as  he  neared  the  field, 
and  saw  spread  out  before  him  from  the  slight  rise 
on  which  he  stood  the  kaleidoscopic  mass  of  color  and 
motion,  he  slowed  down  to  a  crawl,  and  finally  stopped. 

Practically  the  entire  school  was  assembled  there. 
On  the  diamond  the  two  nines  were  engaged  in  a  brisk 
practice  game,  which  was  watched  by  a  crowd  of  spec- 
tators who  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Their  shouts  and 
joshing  criticisms  reached  Judd's  ears  plainly,  as  did 
the  sterner,  more  biting  admonitions  of  the  captain. 
Outside  the  diamond,  all  over  the  flat,  grassy  expanse, 


2OO     The  Awakening  of  Morgan  Rudd. 

boys,  more  boys,  and  then  some,  were  scattered. 
Dozens  of  baseballs  rose  and  fell  in  beautiful  curves. 
Here  and  there  an  embryo  hitter  was  trying  his  hand 
with  a  bat.  Beyond,  the  tennis  courts  were  all  occu- 
pied, and  several  hot  sets  were  in  full  swing.  Boys 
who  had  nothing  else  to  do  occupied  themselves  in 
chasing  each  other  about,  or  rolling  one  another  aim- 
lessly over  the  grass  in  sheer,  joyous  abandon. 

With  the  shouts  and  yells  and  laughter  ringing  in 
his  ears,  Rudd  watched  it  all  bewilderedly  for  a  few 
moments,  before  he  resumed  his  slow  approach.  He 
tried  to  tell  himself  that  it  was  all  foolish  nonsense; 
but  somewhere  within  him  a  responsive  note  was 
struck  which  made  him  feel  a  vague,  regretful  dis- 
quiet because  he  was  not  participating  in  this  sport  and 
frolic. 

It  took  him  a  long  time  to  find  a  boy  with  a  ball 
which  was  not  in  use ;  but  at  last  he  spied  one  standing 
to  one  side  of  the  diamond.  His  request  for  a  catch 
was  met  with  amused  astonishment,  and  declined  with- 
out hesitation. 

Undaunted,  the  determined  chap  continued  his 
search,  and,  after  several  rebuffs,  he  ran  into  little 
Pewee  Stubbs,  his  trowsers  pocket  bulging  with  the 
coveted  ball,  a  mammoth  mitt  dangling  from  one  fin- 
ger, evidently  also  in  search  for  some  one  to  pass  with 
him. 

He  listened  to  Rudd's  request  with  suspicion,  evi- 
dently under  the  impression  that  some  sort  of  a  joke 
was  on  foot.  At  last,  however,  he  was  convinced  that 
the  lanky  fellow  was  in  earnest,  and  they  withdrew  a 
little  from  the  crowd,  to  begin. 


The  Awakening  of  Morgan  Rudd.      201 

Morgan  Rudd  will  never  forget  the  humiliation  ol 
that  afternoon.  The  catching  and  throwing  of  a  ball 
had  seemed  to  him  such  a  simple  thing  that  he  had 
anticipated  not  the  slightest  difficulty  in  the  perform- 
ance. His  chagrin  may  be  imagined  at  the  instant 
discovery  that  there  was  a  decided  knack  about  it. 

At  first  he  grew  furious  at  his  unspeakable  awk- 
wardness, and  at  the  joyous  mirth  of  little  Stubbs 
over  the  diverting  exhibition.  This  only  made  things 
worse,  and  threatened  to  bring  upon  his  companion  an 
attack  of  hysterics. 

At  that,  he  cooled  again,  and  gritted  his  teeth.  He 
was  still  angry  at  himself,  but  it  was  the  cold,  calcu- 
lating sort  of  anger  which  stimulates.  He  vowed  that 
he  would  get  the  knack  or  die. 

He  did  not  get  it  that  afternoon,  but  he  improved 
so  decidedly  that  Pewee  assured  him,  patronizingly, 
that  "he  might  make  a  third-rate  twirler  if  he  kept  it 
up  a  few  hundred  years." 

He  was  at  it  the  next  day  and  the  day  after.  At 
odd  moments  he  slipped  around  back  of  the  gym  and 
threw  a  ball,  which  he  had  bought,  against  the  brick 
wall.  He  went  at  the  thing  in  much  the  same  dogged 
way  that  he  would  have  tackled  a  difficulty  in  aero- 
nautics, and  in  the  end  he  succeeded. 

In  learning  to  throw  and  catch  a  ball,  he  learned 
something  which  was  infinitely  more  important,  and 
which  had  probably  been  in  Frank  Merriwell's  mind 
at  the  very  beginning.  He  came  to  like  being  with  the 
fellows  out  on  the  field.  He  came  to  enjoy  the  com- 
panionship of  the  other  boys,  and  he  no  longer  had 
any  desire  to  mope  by  himself. 


2O2     The  Awakening  of  Morgan  Rudd. 

He  liked  to  feel  that  he  was  a  part  of  that  minia- 
ture world,  even  if  it  was  only  a  very  small,  unim- 
portant part  He  began  to  share  with  his  companions 
the  awe  and  reverence  which  filled  their  souls  at  any 
near  approach  or  notice  from  those  great  men  who 
formed  the  school  nine.  He  took  an  interest  in  the 
games,  and  became  a  loyal  "rooter,"  with  a  chronic 
hoarseness. 

He  developed  a  sense  of  tidiness  in  his  dress,  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  be  like  the  other  boys.  He  even 
fixed  up  his  room  for  that  same  reason.  He  got  so 
that  he  could  hold  up  his  end  in  the  joshing  game  of 
give  and  take,  and,  possessing  a  quick  wit,  came  at  last 
to  have  quite  a  reputation  in  that  regard — a  reputation 
which  was  viewed  with  disgustful  rage  by  Otis 
Burton. 

Burton's  enmity  for  Rudd  had  never  ceased ;  he  had 
lost  no  opportunity  for  sneering  and  backbiting.  As 
the  weeks  passed  into  months,  however,  his  efforts  be- 
came less  and  less  effective.  Tolerated  at  first  by  the 
great  mass  of  boys,  Rudd  began  to  rise  in  their  esti- 
mation bit  by  bit  as  he  developed.  His  life  in  the 
open  air  soon  began  to  show  in  an  erect  carriage,  a 
firm  walk,  and  a  vastly  increased  animation  of  manner. 

His  cheeks,  once  rather  pallid,  now  glowed  with 
health,  and  his  eyes  no  longer  wore  that  dreamy, 
trancelike  expression.  He  took  to  tennis  like  a  duck 
to  water,  and  gained  the  admiration  of  many  by  his 
remarkable  ability  as  a  swimmer. 

In  proportion  as  Rudd  blossomed  out,  Burton's 
slurs  and  innuendoes  failed  of  their  effect,  and  in  that 
same  degree  the  ill-natured  chap's  hatred  gained 


The  Awakening  of  Morgan  Rudd.      203 

strength  and  venom.  He  felt  that  Rudd  suspected  him 
of  having  maliciously  destroyed  the  model,  and  that 
added  to  the  flame  of  his  anger  until  he  became  almost 
"skewed"  on  the  subject. 

Rudd  treated  him  with  a  calm  indifference.  His 
ready  tongue  was  always  equal  to  a  verbal  battle  with 
Burton,  and  the  latter  was  too  much  of  a  coward  to 
resort  to  an  open  quarrel. 

All  this  took  time — a  great  deal  of  time.  April 
slipped  away  into  May;  and  June  appeared  almost 
before  Rudd  realized  it.  His  model  was  progressing 
slowly,  but  surely.  He  did  not  work  rapidly,  but  with 
infinite  care,  and  he  found  that  his  interest  never 
flagged,  as  it  had  sometimes  done  in  the  days  gone 
by.  With  the  other  healthy  diversions  which  took  up 
so  much  of  his  time,  he  never  grew  stale,  and  always 
entered  that  little  room  off  the  pattern  shop  with  an 
elastic  tread  and  sparkling,  eager  eyes. 

Merriwell  came  often  to  watch  the  progress  of  the 
miniature  aeroplane,  and  always  he  marveled  at  the 
boy's  expertness  and  invention.  He  had  brought  all 
the  powers  of  his  brilliant  mind  to  bear  upon  the 
stabilizing  device,  and  could  find  no  flaw  in  it.  Ex- 
traordinary as  it  appeared,  he  had  at  last  to  admit  the 
possibility  of  success,  and,  thinking  of  all  that  success 
would  mean,  he  grew  almost  impatient  for  the  com- 
pletion of  the  model. 

As  June  neared  the  end,  it  was  apparent  that  this 
would  not  come  about  until  after  the  dismissal  of  the 
boys  for  the  brief  interval  of  two  weeks  which  came 
between  the  end  of  school  proper  and  the  beginning 
of  the  summer  camp. 


2O4     The  Awakening  of  Morgan  Rudd. 

Frank  was  not  especially  sorry,  for  it  would  give 
them  an  opportunity  for  trying  out  the  model  in  per- 
fect security  from  interruption.  It  thus  came  about 
that,  when  the  other  boys  departed  with  much  joyful 
clamor  and  horseplay,  Morgan  Rudd  remained  behind 
without  a  single  regret.  His  chance  was  coming 
swiftly,  and,  whenever  he  thought  of  it,  his  heart 
glowed  with  gratitude  toward  the  man  who  had  made 
it  possible. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE   FUTURE   BRIGHTENS. 

'"Finished!" 

As  he  uttered  the  word,  Merriwell  advanced  into 
the  room  and  stood  beside  the  boy  who  had  just  put 
the  last  touch  to  the  exquisite  model  on  the  table  be- 
fore him. 

It  was  a  wonderful  piece  of  work,  but  the  perfection 
and  delicacy  of  workmanship  paled  into  insignificance 
before  the  surpassing  importance  of  the  device  which 
had  emanated  from  the  lad's  brain.  If  it  worked  suc- 
cessfully, a  tremendous  stride  toward  the  conquest  of 
the  air  would  have  been  made. 

The  tiny  but  perfect  gasoline  motor  had  been  made 
according  to  the  specifications  of  the  young  inventor 
and  paid  for  by  the  master  of  the  school. 

Rudd's  cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  bright  with 
excitement  as  he  watched  Merri well's  close  examina- 
tion of  the  model.  At  last  he  could  contain  himself 
no  longer. 

"Shall  we  try  it  out  this  afternoon,  sir?"  he  asked 
breathlessly. 

Merry  glanced  out  of  the  window.  The  day  was 
cloudy,  and  low,  swiftly  flying  gusts  of  dingy  gray 
showed  how  high  the  wind  had  become. 

"If  she  worked  on  a  day  like  this,  it  would  be  the 
best  possible  test,"  he  said  slowly.  "But  do  we  want 
to  risk  ruining  the  work  of  all  these  weeks?  The 
smallest  possible  defect  would  do  it,  you  know." 


2o6  The  Future  Brightens. 

Rudd  noddedjcomprehendingly. 

"I  understand,  sir,"  he  said  quietly.  "But  I've  been 
mighty  careful,  and  I  don't  think  there  are  any 
defects." 

Frank  suppressed  a  smile  at  this  display  of  ingenu- 
ous egotism. 

"Well,  since  you're  game,  we'll  do  it  now,"  he  re- 
turned. "The  wind's  not  strong  enough  actually  to 
blow  it  away,  but  if  this  stabilizing  device  doesn't 
work,  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  smashed  on  the  ground." 

"Still,  if  we  don't  try  it  on  a  windy  day,"  put  in 
Rudd,  "we  won't  have  a  complete  proof  of  anything. 
Besides,  if  it  should  be  broken,  I  can  make  another 
one." 

"There  speaks  the  true  inventor."  Merry  laughed. 
"You  have  perfect  faith  and  indomitable  persever- 
ance. You  take  one  side,  and  we'll  carry  it  downstairs 
now." 

They  did  so,  stopping  only  for  gasoline  to  fill  the 
miniature  tank,  and  went  on  out  of  the  building  to- 
ward the  athletic  field.  Here,  pausing  in  the  shelter 
of  a  tree,  they  filled  the  tank  and  took  a  last  look  over 
everything. 

"I  can't  see  a  thing  out  of  place,"  Rudd  declared. 

"Nor  I,"  Frank  agreed.  "We  may  as  well  set 
things  going.  I  propose  that  we  fasten  the  rudder 
so  that  the  monoplane  will  make  a  wide  circle.  It's 
the  only  way,  unless  we  fasten  a  long  cord  or  wire  to 
it  to  keep  it  from  flying  off,  and  that  wouldn't  be  so 
satisfactory,  anyhow.  If  your  machine  will  ride 
steady  in  this  wind  while  constantly  circling,  there 


The  Future  Brightens.  207 

isn't  a  single  doubt  in  my  mind  that  the  device  is 
practicable." 

Rudd  agreed  to  the  suggestion  instantly,  and  they 
set  about  making  the  steering  apparatus  fast.  This 
done,  the  engine  was  started  and  let  run  for  a  few 
moments,  the  two  companions  watching  it  anxiously. 

Though  the  boy  was  nervous  and  excited,  while 
Merry  remained  perfectly  calm  and  self-contained,  it 
is  a  question  which  of  them  was  really  the  more 
anxious  over  the  result. 

More,  perhaps,  than  the  lad  himself,  Merry  realized 
the  immense  importance  of  the  invention.  Well  versed 
as  he  was  in  the  science  of  aeronautics,  the  man  had 
long  ago  seen  that  one  weak  point  of  all  aeroplanes 
was  their  lack  of  stability.  There  were  numerous 
methods,  to  be  sure,  for  keeping  the  equilibrium  by 
means  of  moving  the  wings,  but  all  of  them  had  to 
be  operated  by  the  driver,  and  were  more  or  less  un- 
certain. The  perfect  automatic  device  was  the  ideal 
method;  and,  if  this  boy  had  discovered  it,  he  had  suc- 
ceeded where  every  one  else  had  failed. 

"We'll  have  to  set  her  going  from  a  height,"  Merry 
said,  in  a  thoughtful  tone.  "The  elevating  rudder 
should  be  left  level,  or  she  may  soar  away  from  us." 

"How  would  the  top  of  the  stand  do?"  Rudd  sug- 
gested. 

"Very  well,  I  should  think,"  Merry  returned. 
"There  isn't  a  tree  within  a  thousand  feet,  and  we 
could  lift  her  high  enough  to  escape  hitting  any  of 
the  seats." 

Stopping  the  engine,  they  carried  the  monoplane 


208  The  Future  Brightens. 

carefully  over  to  the  field  and  up  to  the  top  tier  of 
uncovered  seats.  There  was  no  more  delay  now. 
Starting  the  engine  again,  Frank  lifted  the  model  as 
high  as  he  could,  assisted  to  some  extent  by  Rudd, 
and  a  moment  later  it  was  launched  into  the  air. 

The  next  instant  their  hearts  were  in  their  throats 
as  a  gust  struck  the  frail  craft  and  tilted  it  to  a 
dangerous  degree.  For  a  second  it  seemed  as  if  noth- 
ing could  prevent  the  equilibrium  from  being  de- 
stroyed. Then,  marvelously,  just  as  a  bird  flies,  they 
beheld  the  other  wing  move  to  restore  the  balance. 

A  deep  sigh  of  relief  came  from  both  man  and  boy, 
but  they  did  not  speak.  With  nerves  tingling,  and  with 
alternately  flushing  and  paling  faces,  they  watched 
the  aeroplane  sweep  around  the  field  in  a  wide  circle. 

To  be  strictly  accurate,  its  path  was  more  in  the 
nature  of  an  ellipse,  for  the  strong  breeze  could  not 
help  but  accelerate  its  progress  in  one  direction  and 
retard  it  in  another.  Time  and  time  again  came  that 
dangerous  tilting  of  one  wing,  only  to  be  followed 
as  surely  by  the  reflex  action  of  the  other. 

Around  and  around  the  field  the  machine  swept 
like  a  great  bird  flying.  Presently  they  hastened  down 
from  the  seats  and  stood  ready  to  receive  it  when  the 
gasoline  should  have  been  used  up. 

The  engine  chugged  away  for  some  time  longer, 
but  at  last  the  explosions  grew  irregular,  and  presently 
stopped. 

Instantly  it  began  to  float  downward ;  but  the  wind, 
catching  it,  carried  it  along  the  field,  so  that  they  had 
to  run  at  the  top  of  their  speed  to  prevent  it  from 
landing  too  strenuously. 


The  Future  Brightens.  209 

It  was  recovered  not  twenty  feet  from  a  tree,  and, 
after  lowering  it  to  the  ground,  Frank  straightened 
up,  his  face  glowing  with  enthusiasm. 

"Couldn't  be  better,  Morgan!"  he  exclaimed,  ex- 
tending his  hand.  "I  verily  believe  you've  done  it." 

Thrilled  with  joy  and  excitement,  the  boy  clasped 
his  hand.  It  seemed  too  wonderful  to  be  true;  and, 
as  he  stood  there  looking  into  Merry's  fine  eyes,  and 
thinking  what  the  future  might  bring  forth,  he  could 
not  have  spoken  to  save  his  life. 

Seeing  how  moved  he  was,  Frank  bent  to  do  some- 
thing to  the  little  model.  When  he  glanced  up  again, 
the  boy  had  recovered  his  self-control. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  he  said,  his  eyes  glowing.  "I  wanted 
it  to  succeed  so  much.  Do  you  suppose  anybody  would 
take  it  up  now  and  manufacture  a  real  machine  from 
this  model?" 

Frank  laughed. 

"I  know  one  who  would,"  he  chuckled.  "This  is 
my  plan,  Morgan :  I  will  at  once  order  the  parts  for 
a  full-sized  monoplane  to  be  sent  here.  The  parts 
for  the  safety  device  can  be  obtained  from  several 
different  factories,  so  there  won't  be  any  danger  of 
its  leaking  out.  Moreover,  I'll  apply  at  once  for  a 
patent  on  it.  When  you  return  in  the  fall  we'll  put 
the  machine  together  here  and  try  her  out.  If  she 
proves  successful — and  I  have  no  doubt  she  will — * 
then  we'll  invite  Captain  Baldwin  to  come  down  and 
see  her  fly.  You'd  just  as  soon  give  him  the  first 
chance  of  using  the  device,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  Rudd  gasped.  "But  you're  too  good 
altogether.  You've  done  enough — already." 


2IO  The  Future  Brightens. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  Morgan,"  Frank  said 
lightly.  "I  shall  be  more  than  repaid  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  having  helped  a  little  toward  giving  to  the 
world  something  which  will  mark  another  giant  stride 
in  the  science  of  aeronautics." 


CHAPTER  XXX1> 

THE  TEST. 

At  Merriwell's  advice,  Morgan  Rudd  spent  the  sum- 
mer entirely  out  of  doors.  He  tried  to  eliminate  all 
thoughts  of  the  aeroplane  from  his  mind,  and  devoted 
his  attention  entirely  to  swimming,  canoeing,  moun- 
tain climbing,  and  all  sorts  of  open-air  sports  and 
pastimes. 

The  result  was  that  he  had  a  tremendous  appetite, 
slept  like  a  log  ten  hours  each  night,  and  when  Sep- 
tember came  he  was  hard  as  nails,  brown  as  a  berry, 
and  feeling  better  than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life 
before. 

His  appearance  was  so  transformed  that  scarcely 
one  of  the  fellows  who  had  not  been  with  him  in 
the  summer  recognized,  at  first  sight,  in  this  tanned, 
bright-eyed,  smiling  chap,  the  boy  they  had  parted  with 
only  three  months  before. 

His  manner  was  changed,  too.  Though  his  first 
thought  was  for  his  monoplane,  and  the  first  thing 
he  did  was  to  hurry  over  to  the  rough  wooden  shed 
which  had  been  erected  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  be- 
yond the  football  field  for  the  assembling  of  the  vari- 
ous parts,  he  kept  to  his  plan  of  mingling  with  the 
fellows  and  giving  his  brain  a  chance  for  developing 
broadly. 

He  did  not  go  in  for  football,  because  he  knew  that 
he  would  not  be  able  to  give  the  time  necessary  to 


212  The  Test. 

regular  practice;  but  he  went  to  every  game,  and 
rooted  as  enthusiastically  for  his  team  as  any  one  else. 
He  kept  up  his  tennis,  however,  and  frequently  took 
part  in  the  brisk  games  of  land  hockey,  which  were 
gotten  up  almost  every  day  after  the  football  teams 
had  vacated  the  field. 

A  considerable  amount  of  spare  time,  however,  was 
spent  in  the  wooden  shed  where,  with  Merry's  assist- 
ance, the  monoplane  was  assembled,  slowly  but  surely. 

As  this  child  of  his  brain  grew  steadily  from  a 
mass  of  seemingly  incongruous  parts  into  a  finished 
whole,  Rudd's  delight  and  pleasure  jncreased  by  leaps 
and  bounds.  Mingled  with  his  joy  was  a  little  awe. 
Sometimes,  especially  toward  the  end,  as  he  stood  si- 
lently surveying  the  wide-spread  planes,  the  trim,  ship- 
shape framework,  and  the  compactly  arranged  engine, 
stabilizing  device,  and  various  other  parts,  he  found 
himself  wondering  whether  it  was  really  going  to 
prove  successful.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had 
actually  solved  the  problem  which  had  been  the  despair 
of  so  many  vastly  abler  brains  than  his? 

The  successful  flight  of  the  little  model  had  been 
more  than  encouraging,  to  be  sure,  but  models  had 
been  known  to  work  before  this,  and  their  larger  rep- 
licas fail. 

This  thought  of  failure  frightened  him.  He  felt  as 
if  he  could  not  bear  it  after  the  high  hopes  which 
had  been  raised  within  him.  He  kept  this  dread  to 
himself;  but,  somehow,  Merriwell  sensed  a  little  of 
what  was  going  on  in  the  boy's  mind.  It  was  a  very 
natural  reaction  from  the  optimism  which  had  come 
after  the  trial  of  the  model,  coupled  with  an  unavoid- 


The  Test.  213 

able  anxiety  lest  something  go  wrong  at  the  last  mo- 
ment. 

He  did  his  best  to  reassure  the  boy,  but  he  him- 
self was  not  feeling  so  certain  of  results  as  to  be  per- 
fectly confident.  Some  slight,  seemingly  trivial,  thing, 
so  small  as  to  make  no  difference  in  the  flight  of  the 
model,  was  as  likely  to  prove  their  undoing  as  if  a 
big,  vital  principle  had  been  wrongly  applied. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said  cheerfully  one  day,  "we 
can't  afford  to  waste  energy  in  useless  worry.  We'll 
use  every  possible  care  in  constructing  the  machine, 
and  no  human  being  can  do  more.  After  that,  we 
shall  have  to  trust  more  or  less  in  Providence.  We 
want  to  make  up  our  minds  that  it's  going  to  suc- 
ceed, at  the  same  time  preparing  ourselves  as  best 
we  can  for  failure,  and  then  stop  worrying." 

Rudd,  clad  in  greasy  overalls  and  smudged  from 
head  to  foot  with  dirt  and  oil,  tried  to  smile  cheer- 
fully. After  that,  he  did  his  best  to  follow  Frank's 
advice;  but,  as  the  time  drew  near  for  their  initial 
attempts  at  flight,  he  could  not  help  growing  more  and 
more  nervous  and  worried. 

Naturally,  the  news  that  an  aeroplane  was  being  put 
together  in  that  mysterious  shed  beyond  the  foot- 
ball field  swiftly  spread  throughout  the  school  and 
excited  a  vast  deal  of  intereft.  Boys  were  constantly 
hanging  about,  gazing  in  wonder  at  the  rough,  square 
structure  with  the  great  doors  in  front;  but  that  was 
as  far  as  they  ever  got.  Frank  had  built  the  shed 
with  that  idea  in  view,  and  the  light  all  came  from 
skylights  in  the  roof,  thus  making  it  impossible  to 
see  anything  from  the  outside. 


214  The  Test. 

Opinion  was  divided  as  to  Rudd's  part  in  the  af- 
fair. Many  of  the  boys  were  frankly  incredulous, 
and  refused  to  believe  that  he  could  have  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  invention  of  the  machine.  They 
decided  that  he  might  be  handy  with  tools  and  at 
machinery,  and  on  that  account  had  been  selected  by 
Merriwell  to  help  in  the  work. 

This  view  was  fostered  on  every  possible  occasion 
by  Otis  Burton,  who  was  furious  at  the  attention  the 
fellow  he  hated  was  attracting.  He  lost  no  chance  to 
sneer  at  Rudd  and  at  the  aeroplane,  assuring  every 
one  who  would  listen  to  him  that  the  thing  would 
never  get  a  foot  off  the  ground. 

Others,  and  they  were  decidedly  in  the  minority, 
thought  that  there  must  be  something  in  it,  or  Frank 
Merriwell  would  never  waste  so  much  time  in  the 
shed.  Whether  it  was  his  invention  or  Rudd's,  they 
had  no  idea. 

The  latter  was,  of  course,  questioned  at  all  times 
and  places,  but  he  gave  little  satisfaction.  He  was  al- 
ways good-humored  and  smiling,  and  generally  turned 
the  inquiries  of  his  curious  companions  off  with  a 
joke.  He  kept  his  own  counsel,  however,  and  the 
fellows  were  always  obliged  to  desist,  without  becom- 
ing any  the  wiser. 

The  thrill  which  had  accompanied  the  completion 
of  the  model  was  as  nothing  compared  to  that  which 
followed  the  tightening  of  the  last  bolt  on  the  fin- 
ished machine. 

To  Rudd  it  seemed  as  if  the  great,  winged  creature 
was  something  alive,  whose  behavior  was  fraught 
with  infinite  possibilities;  and,  as  he  stood  looking  at 


The  Test.  215 

it,  he  felt  a  rush  of  that  awe  which  had  come  to  him 
more  than  once  before. 

What  was  it  going  to  do,  once  life,  in  the  shape 
of  motive  power,  was  given  it?  How  was  it  going 
to  behave?  Would  it  soar  through  the  air,  as  they 
had  every  right  to  expect,  or  would  it  crash  to  the 
ground,  sweeping  away  in  a  single  moment  the  work 
of  many  weeks? 

He  did  not  know.  No  one  could  predict  with  any 
certainty.  They  could  only  trust  to  Providence,  as 
Merriwell  had  said  they  should,  and  take  their  lives 
into  their  hands,  as  does  every  man  who  attempts  to 
conquer  the  air. 

Frank  had  decided  that  the  initial  trip  had  better 
take  place  at  night.  It  would  be  utterly  impossible 
for  them  to  attempt  it  in  the  daytime  without  an  audi- 
ence of  the  entire  school,  and  that  he  was  anxious 
to  avoid.  In  case  anything  went  wrong,  he  wished 
to  run  no  needless  risk  of  life,  such  as  would  follow 
a  sudden  buckling  of  the  machine  and  a  plunging  down 
into  a  crowd. 

Consequently,  the  fact  that  the  aeroplane  was  fin- 
ished was  kept  a  profound  secret  from  every  one. 
Even  Inza,  Merry's  wife,  knew  nothing  about  it;  and 
when  Frank  left  the  house,  after  supper  one  night,  he 
did  it  quietly  and  casually,  as  if  he  were  simply  going 
for  one  of  his  frequent  evening  strolls. 

Rudd  also  took  great  care  in  slipping  out  of  the 
school.  They  met  in  front  of  the  shed  without  hav- 
ing aroused  the  suspicions  of  a  soul  as  to  what  was 
up,  save  only  Toots,  Merry's  negro  coachman,  who 
had  been  summoned  to  the  scene  as  a  matter  of  pre- 


216  The  Test 

caution  in  case  of  something  happening  which  might 
disable  them  both. 

The  night  was  clear  and  cold.  Millions  of  stars 
sprinkled  the  blue-black  arch  above  them,  and  a  fairly 
strong  westerly  breeze  was  blowing. 

Quietly,  Frank  unlocked  the  great  double  doors, 
and  threw  them  open.  Within,  like  a  mammoth, 
ghostly  bird,  the  white  outlines  of  the  aeroplane 
gleamed  vaguely  through  the  darkness.  Behind  them, 
Toots'  teeth  were  chattering. 

"For  de  Lawd,  Marse  Frank!"  he  gasped.  "You- 
all  am'  goin'  fur  to  set  dat  fing  loose?" 

"Never  you  mind  what  we're  going  to  do,  Toots," 
Merry  answered.  "You  don't  have  to  go  up  in  it. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  stand  here  and  watch." 

He  lighted  a  lantern  and  went  carefully  over  every 
part  of  the  monoplane  for  the  last  time,  without  find- 
ing a  single  thing  out  of  place.  Then  he  turned  to 
Rudd. 

"I'd  rather  go  up  alone,  Morgan,  at  first,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  mind?" 

The  boy  hesitated  an  instant.  He  was  no  longer 
nervous.  That  had  passed,  leaving  him  cool  and  fear- 
less. 

"Don't  you  think  it  will  hold  two?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Ye-es,  but " 

"I'm  not  a  bit  afraid,"  Rudd  assured  him.  "I'd 
hate  awfully  to  miss  the  first  trip." 

Frank  did  not  answer  for  a  second.  He  seemed  to 
be  thinking  it  over. 

"Very  well,"  he  agreed  at  last.  "Get  into  some- 
thing warm.  You  brought  your  sweater,  didn't  you  ?" 


The  Test.  217 

The  youth  nodded,  and  they  proceeded  at  once  to 
get  into  sweaters,  leggings,  and  other  garments  which 
had  been  stored  in  the  shed  a  day  or  so  before. 

Toots  stood  watching  them,  his  eyes  staring  and 
an  expression  of  intense  horror  and  despair  on  his 
face.  When  Merriwell  turned  on  the  gas  and  started 
the  engine,  with  the  machine  still  "anchored,"  he 
jumped  as  if  shot,  and  gave  vent  to  a  moan.  In  a 
moment,  however,  Merry  shut  off  the  spark,  after 
which  he  set  the  machine  free  from  its  moorings. 

The  engine  was  equipped  with  a  self -star  ting  de- 
vice. Frank  took  his  place  in  the  driver's  seat,  while 
Rudd  climbed  into  the  one  behind  him.  There  was  a 
second  of  intense  stillness,  during  which  the  boy 
could  feel  his  heart  thudding  loudly  against  his  ribs. 
The  next  instant  Frank  pressed  the  starting  button, 
and  the  monoplane  shot  smoothly  past  the  horrified 
negro,  whose  face  had  turned  a  sickly  sort  of  gray, 
out  through  the  wide  doors,  and  into  the  night. 

Merry  let  her  run  for  a  few  hundred  feet,  and  then 
gently  moved  the  elevating  lever.  With  a  soaring 
swoop,  the  machine  left  the  earth  and  shot  into  the 
air,  quivering  a  little  under  the  force  of  the  wind, 
but  otherwise  perfectly  balanced. 

At  an  elevation  of  some  thirty  feet,  Frank  restored 
her  to  a  horizontal  position,  swerved  slightly  to  one 
side,  and  shot  out  across  the  football  field. 

They  were  above  the  seats  and  goal  posts,  and  the 
starlight  was  bright  enough  to  show  up  the  dark  bulk 
of  trees  that  linked  one  side  of  the  open  space,  so  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  running  into  obstacles. 

Straight  down  the  field  they  went,  still  keeping  in 


2i8  The  Test. 

perfect  balance,  in  spite  of  the  strong  wind  which 
was  blowing.  It  looked  very  much  as  if  the  stabiliz- 
ing device  was  working  perfectly,  and  Rudd  felt  a 
blissful  calm  descending  upon  him  as  he  sat  clutching 
the  framework,  with  the  chill  night  air  blowing  un- 
heeded on  his  face. 

All  his  worry  and  anxiety  had  been  for  naught.  He 
had  succeeded  beyond  his  expectations. 

Again  the  plane  was  elevated,  and  they  curved  up 
above  the  treetops.  A  wide  sweep  headed  them  back 
toward  the  shed,  and  a  .moment  later  they  passed 
over  it,  barely  able  to  discern  the  frightened  face  of 
Toots,  visible  in  the  light  of  the  lantern,  as  he  stared 
up  at  them. 

Turning  again,  Merriwell  increased  the  speed,  and 
they  shot  back  over  the  field.  Another  turn,  and  Merry 
shut  off  the  engine,  and,  with  plane  depressed,  swooped 
easily  and  gracefully  to  earth,  making  a  perfect  land- 
ing, and  stopping  not  twenty  feet  from  the  moaning, 
trembling  negro. 

"Praise  de  Lawd!"  the  latter  ejaculated.  "I  never 
done  'spec'  ter  see  yo'-all  ag'in.  Ah's  mos'  sick  with 
t'ankfulness  you  come  down  safe." 

"We're  pretty  glad  ourselves,  Toots,"  Merry 
laughed,  as  he  stepped  out  of  the  machine. 

His  face  was  radiant,  and  he  turned  swiftly  to 
Rudd. 

"It's  all  right,  boy,"  he  exclaimed.  "You've  suc- 
ceeded. I'll  wire  Captain  Baldwin  to-morrow." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Rudd  gripped  it  tightly. 
Something  seemed  to  catch  him  by  the  throat,  though, 
and  he  could  not  utter  a  word. 


r 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  BOY  WHO  MEDDLED. 

The  great  day  had  arrived,  and  the  school  was 
thrilled  with  the  excitement  of  it  Directly  after  the 
football  game,  which  had  been  started  early  on  that 
account,  a  public  flight  of  the  mysterious  aeroplane, 
which  had  been  puzzling  every  one  to  an  almost  in- 
tolerable degree  for  two  months,  was  to  come  off. 

More  interesting  than  that,  even,  were  the  rumors 
that  one  of  the  most  famous  air  men  of  the  age  would 
be  present,  having  come  all  the  way  from  New  York 
for  the  purpose  of  inspecting  an  invention  which  was 
said  to  be  actually  revolutionary. 

There  were  whispers  that  this  invention  was  the 
work  of  Morgan  Rudd,  but  these  were  not  generally 
credited.  That  Frank  Merriwell  had  done  something 
wonderful  in  the  line  of  invention  seemed  perfectly 
natural,  for  there  was  scarcely  a  boy  in  the  school 
who  did  not  have  implicit  faith  in  the  man's  ability  to 
accomplish  almost  anything.  To  believe  that  one  of 
their  own  number,  a  fellow  of  only  seventeen,  who 
had  always  been  regarded  as  more  or  less  queer,  should 
be  "the  inventor,  seemed  absurd. 

Nevertheless,  Morgan  Rudd  was  looked  upon  by 
almost  every  one  with  a  sort  of  respectful  wonder. 
Even  if  he  was  not  responsible  for  the  planning  of  the 
aeroplane,  he  had  been  taken  into  Merriwell's  confi- 
dence, and  knew  all  about  it.  It  was  even  rumored 


220  The  Boy  Who  Meddled. 

that  he  knew  how  to  operate  the  machine,  and  all  the 
morning  he  was  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  eager,  curi- 
ous boys,  athirst  for  information. 

The  sight  maddened  Otis  Burton.  He  went  about 
sneering  and  jeering  at  Rudd  and  at  the  flying  machine 
in  an  almost  incoherent  manner,  assuring  every  one 
that  the  whole  thing  would  be  a  fizzle,  that  the  aero- 
plane would  never  get  a  foot  off  the  ground. 

Considering  the  general  feeling  about  the  school, 
his  attitude  was  a  mistaken  one.  He  discovered  this 
very  soon  by  the  manner  in  which  he  was  thrown 
down  good  and  hard,  and  told  very  plainly  that  he 
was  jealous  of  Rudd's  reputation  and  popularity. 

This,  of  course,  only  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his 
resentment,  which  flared  up  hotter  than  ever. 

"Darn  fools !"  he  muttered  furiously,  after  the  last 
and  most  trying  rebuff.  "They'll  find  out  mighty 
quick  that  I'm  right.  They  make  me  sick,  the  whole 
lot  of  'em." 

He  was  so  irritated  and  disgusted  that  he  resolved 
to  go  off  on  his  wheel,  and  cut  both  the  game  and 
the  exhibition,  which  was  to  follow  it.  In  his  inner- 
most heart  he  had  a  hateful  fear  that,  after  all,  there 
might  be  something  in  the  persistent  rumors  of  a 
wonderful  discovery  having  been  made  by  Merriwell 
and  Rudd ;  and  he  had  no  desire  to  be  a  witness  to 
the  latter's  triumph. 

He  got  out  his  bicycle  and  started  slowly  across  the 
flat,  smooth,  grassy  expanse  along  the  side  of  the 
football  field.  It  was  a  short  cut  to  the  village  road, 
and  Burton  presently  got  a  glimpse,  through  a  fringe 
of  trees,  of  the  shed  which  housed  the  aeroplane. 


The  Boy  Who  Meddled.  221? 

Unconsciously  he  slowed  down.  The  place  was 
shut  up,  but  his  keen  eyes  saw  a  figure  hurrying  to- 
ward it,  which  must  be  Rudd.  During  the  morning, 
Merriwell  had  strictly  forbidden  any  of  the  boys  to 
go  near  the  spot.  The  aeroplane  would  have  to  be 
taken  out  of  the  shed  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  he 
was  afraid  that  some  of  them,  in  examining  it,  might 
do  some  damage. 

Otis  scowled  fiercely;  and  then,  pedaling  hard 
again,  swerved  into  a  path  leading  through  the  trees, 
down  a  steep  slope  and  into  the  road.  At  Bloomfield 
he  stopped  at  the  store,  and  had  two  sodas  in  solitary 
state. 

Not  one  of  the  fellows  was  to  be  seen,  for  the  game 
must  by  this  time  have  commenced.  Burton  was  not 
sorry.  He  did  not  want  to  see  any  one  at  the  present 
moment ;  and,  besides,  at  no  time  was  he  noted  for  an 
eagerness  to  treat. 

Having  satisfied  his  appetite  for  sweets  at  a  mini- 
mum cost,  he  mounted  the  wheel  again  and  rode  out 
of  the  village. 

It  was  perhaps  half  past  three  when  he  returned, 
hot,  tired,  and  still  angry.  At  the  entrance  to  the 
short  cut,  he  dismounted  and  walked  his  machine  up 
the  steep  slope,  mounted  it  again,  and  then,  just  as 
he -had  reached  the  point  from  which  he  could  see 
the  shed  through  the  trees,  he  suddenly  leaped  to  the 
ground  and  stood  still. 

During  his  absence  the  aeroplane  had  been  brought 
outside  the  building,  and  now  stood  in  the  open,  a 
little  way  from  the  door.  As  he  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  gleaming  white  of  the  wide-spread  planes, 


222  The  Boy  Who  Meddled. 

the  intricate  framework  beneath,  and  all  the  vari- 
ous parts  over  which  Merriwell  and  Rudd  had  la- 
bored so  long  and  carefully,  he  was  decidedly  im- 
pressed. 

Somehow,  he  had  not  expected  anything  like  this. 
It  was  all  so  much  bigger  and  looked  so  much  more 
shipshape  than  he  had  pictured  it  to  himself,  that  his 
heart  sank  in  a  sudden  doubt  as  to  whether  he  might 
not,  after  all,  be  wrong. 

"Rot!"  he  muttered,  the  next  moment.  "Just  be- 
cause it's  big,  it  doesn't  follow  that  it'll  fly." 

Trundling  his  bicycle,  he  walked  a  little  nearer. 
Presently  he  saw  that  there  was  no  one  near  the 
thing.  It  had  been  moved  some  twenty  feet  or  more 
to  the  right  of  the  shed,  apparently  so  that  it  could 
be  headed  straight  for  the  football  field  and  the  open 
space  beyond. 

"Wonder  where  Rudd  is?"  he  thought  curiously. 
"Perhaps  he's  gone  back  to  the  school  for  something, 
or  maybe  he's  in  the  shed." 

A  moment  later,  drawn  by  irrepressible  curiosity, 
he  had  left  the  trees  and  was  advancing  softly  to- 
ward the  machine.  He  kept  a  keen  eye  on  the  shed, 
but  could  see  no  one  about  it  nor  hear  any  sounds 
which  would  indicate  that  the  fellow  he  hated  was 
inside. 

From  the  field  came  the  crashing  roars  of  concerted 
cheering  which  told  him  that  Farnham  Hall  had  done 
something  good  It  was  almost  time  for  the  game 
to  be  finished,  he  thought,  and  then,  in  a  flash,  an  idea 
came  into  his  mind. 


The  Boy  Who  Meddled.  223 

He  stopped  and  listened.  Not  a  sound  came  from 
the  shed.  Perhaps  Rudd  had  slipped  over  to  see  the 
end  of  the  game.  An  opportunity  such  as  this  would 
never  come  again.  If  he  could  only  do  some  little 
thing  to  the  aeroplane  which  would  spoil  the  whole 
exhibition  and  cover  Rudd  with  shame,  he  would  have 
squared  the  score  between  them. 

A  moment  later  he  had  reached  the  side  of  the 
machine  and  let  his  wheel  slip  to  the  ground.  Circling 
one  of  the  great  planes,  he  stepped  close  to  the  side 
of  the  framework  and  looked  about  him  curiously. 

There  were  two  seats,  one  behind  the  other,  and 
near  the  front  one  he  saw  several  levers  and  other  bits 
of  mechanism,  none  of  which  could  be  reached  from 
the  ground. 

A  moment  later  he  had  climbed  cautiously  into  the 
seat  and  was  looking  swiftly  about  for  some  means 
to  accomplish  his  purpose.  He  pressed  on  one  of  the 
levers  gingerly,  but  it  did  not  move.  He  examined 
something  which  looked  like  the  spark  and  throttle 
device  on  an  automobile,  but  was  different  in  one  or 
two  respects. 

There  were  apparently  no  nuts  which  he  could  re- 
move, nor  any  other  small  parts  the  loss  of  which 
might  injure  the  machine.  Presently  he  bent  over  to 
examine  a  boxlike  arrangement,  and  a  moment  later 
his  finger  pressed  lightly  on  a  button  in  the  center. 

Instantly  there  was  a  jarring  vibration,  and,  to  his 
horror,  the  aeroplane  began  to  move  slowly  forward. 
With  a  cry  of  fear,  he  half  arose  to  his  feet,  one 
hand  clutching  unconsciously  at  the  spark  and  throttle 
levers,  causing  the  machine,  with  a  rattling  volley  oi 


224  The  Boy  Who  Meddled. 

explosions,  to  leap  forward  with  a  jerk  that  threw 
him  back  into  the  seat,  white  and  panic-stricken. 

As  he  shot  forward  across  the  smooth  grass,  he  gave 
another  loud  cry,  which  was  answered  from  behind. 

"Stop !    Stop !"  yelled  Rudd's  voice  frantically. 

He  must  have  been  in  the  shed  all  the  time.  Even 
in  the  midst  of  his  awful  fear,  Burton  found  himself 
wishing  desperately  that  the  boy  he  hated  had  stepped 
out  a  little  sooner,  and  had  prevented  him  from  climb- 
ing into  this  hateful,  diabolical  thing,  which  was  run- 
ning away  with  him. 

Stop  ?  He  would  have  given  anything  he  possessed 
to  do  it,  but  he  could  not.  His  fingers  fluttered  nerv- 
ously among  the  bewildering  mechanism,  which  was 
as  incomprehensible  to  him  as  Greek.  He  tried  to 
be  calm  and  to  reason.  There  must  be  some  way 
of  stopping  it.  Where  was  the  switch  which  would 
shut  off  the  current?  Frantically  he  searched,  but 
could  not  find  it.  There  must  be  some  sort  of  a 
brake.  He  had  never  heard  of  any  moving  machine 
>vithout  a  break.  Was  it  one  of  those  other  levers? 

His  heart  was  thudding  loudly  against  his  ribs. 
(Perspiration  burst  forth  upon  his  forehead,  and  he 
turned  actually  sick  with  fright.  He  must  stop  it — 
fee  must! 

'At  last,  he  barely  touched  the  hateful  throttle  lever 
again,  and  the  aeroplane  seemed  to  leap  forward  along 
the  ground  with  a  jolt  which  took  his  breath  away 
and  made  him  cry  out  once  more. 

After  that  he  lost  his  head. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE     HERO     OF     THE     AIR. 

"Suppose  we  stop  here  a  minute  or  two  and  see 
the  finish  of  the  game,  captain,"  Merry  said.  "I  told 
Rudd  we  would  show  up  at  four,  and,  if  you  don't 
mind,  I'd  rather  not  get  there  ahead  of  time.  He's 
preparing  everything  for  a  flight,  and  it  would  be  too 
bad  to  drop  in  on  him  before  he's  ready." 

Captain  Baldwin,  the  famous  air  man,  acquiesced, 
without  hesitation.  He  was  not  a  youth,  but  there 
was  something  about  his  big  frame  and  smooth-shaven 
face,  with  those  calm,  level  eyes,  which  attracted  at- 
tention wherever  he  went  He  had  the  look  of  a 
man  who  has  done  things,  and  who  possesses  ability 
far  above  the  ordinary,  without  being  in  the  least 
conspicuous  or  peculiar. 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed,  with  a  pleasant  smile  which 
lit  up  his  whole  face.  "The  young  man  deserves  every 
consideration,  and  we  must  not  surprise  him  before  he 
is  quite  ready  for  us." 

They  moved  forward  to  the  side  lines,  the  crowd 
of  boys  parting  instantly  to  make  room  for  them,  and 
one  and  all  regarding  the  captain  with  the  same  lively 
interest  which  had  followed  him  ever  since  he  first 
appeared  at  the  school  an  hour  before. 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  watched  the  progress  of 
the  game,  which  had  already  practically  been  won  by 
the  home  team,  Frank  with  the  keen  interest  a  contest 


226  The  Hero  of  the  Air. 

of  that  sort  always  aroused  in  him,  and  his  com- 
panion with  a  palpable  effort  to  drag  his  thoughts 
for  a  moment  away  from  the  thing  which  was  ab- 
sorbing him. 

"You  have  a  splendid  lot  of  boys,  Frank,"  he  said 
presently.  "Fine,  manly  fellows,  every  one  of  them." 

"They  are  that,"  Merry  agreed  instantly.  "Appar- 
ent exceptions  crop  up  now  and  then ;  but  I  have  never 
found  a  boy  who  was  incorrigible.  They  all  have 
good  qualities,  if  you  can  only  get  at  them." 

"That's  it,  if  you  can  get  at  them!  All  men  can't. 
I  venture  to  say  that  there  is  not  one  who  does  not 
leave  here  a  better  chap  than  when  he  came  to  you." 

Merriwell  laughed  a  little. 

"That's  what  I'm  here  for,"  he  returned.  "That's 
the  object  of  the  school  in  a  nutshell." 

The  captain  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  field  before  him,  where  the  Farnham  Hall  team 
was  rushing  the  ball  toward  their  goal,  opposed  des- 
perately but  ineffectually  by  the  rival  team.  Presently 
a  touchdown  was  made,  and  the  wild  bursts  of  cheer- 
ing from  the  spectators  made  speech  for  a  time  im- 
possible. 

When  the  bedlam  had  somewhat  died  away,  the 
older  man  turned  again  to  Merriwell. 

"Do  you  know,  Frank,"  he  said,  "the  more  I  think 
of  this  inventor  of  yours,  the  more  incredible  the 
whole  thing  seems.  With  absolutely  no  reflection  on 
your  judgment,  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  a  mere  boy 
has  succeeded  where  so  many  more  mature,  experi- 
enced men  have  failed  utterly.''^ 

Merry  smiled. 


The  Hero  of  the  Air.  227 

"I  don't  blame  you  in  the  least,  captain,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  felt  exactly  that  way  myself.  When  Rudd 
first  told  me  of  his  stabilizing  device,  I  was  perfectly 
sure  there  could  be  nothing  in  it.  I  thought  he  might 
have  conceived  something  ingenious  which  would  ap- 
pear to  be  what  he  supposed  it;  but  that  he  had  ac- 
tually solved  the  great  problem  was  incredible.  Even 
after  the  model  worked  successfully,  I  was  not  con- 
vinced entirely." 

"You  are  now?"  queried  the  captain. 

Frank  nodded. 

"Perfectly,"  he  said  emphatically.  "After  our  first 
flight,  there  has  been  no  further  doubt  in  my  mind, 
and  there  will  not  be  in  yours  an  hour  from  now." 

Captain  Baldwin  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  remain  open  to  conviction,"  he  said  good-hu- 
moredly.  "Isn't  it  almost  four?" 

"Ten  minutes  of,"  Merriwell  smiled,  consulting  his 
watch.  "I  think  we  may  start  over  there." 

The  goal  had  been  kicked,  and,  as  they  left  the 
crowd  and  started  slowly  across  the  turf,  the  teams 
lined  up  for  the  scant  two  minutes  which  remained 
of  the  last  quarter. 

"Am  I  to  be  allowed  a  seat  during  the  first  as- 

The  captain  broke  off  abruptly,  and  stopped  short, 
his  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  distant  shed.  The  bark- 
ing of  a  gas  motor  drifted  to  their  ears. 

"The  monoplane  is  moving,"  he  said,  in  a  puzzled 
tone.  "I  thought  he  was  to  wait  until  we  came  ?" 

Merriwell's  face  was  bewildered. 

"That  was  the  plan,"  he  said  tersely,  not  taking  his 


228  The  Hero  of  the  Air. 

eyes  from  the  winged  machine,  which  was  advancing 
rapidly  toward  them  on  its  rubber-tired  wheels.  "I 
don't  understand  this  move.  Rudd  is  not  the  sort  for 
making  a  spectacular  exhibition." 

A  sudden  cry  came  faintly  to  their  ears  and  gal- 
vanized both  men  into  instant  life. 

"Something's  wrong!"  exclaimed  the  captain,  as 
they  started  to  run  forward. 

Merriwell  said  nothing.  His  face  was  slightly  pale, 
and  in  his  eyes  was  a  great  dread.  He  had  seen  the 
figure  of  Rudd  rush  wildly  out  of  the  shed,  stare  for 
an  instant  after  the  moving  machine,  and  then  run 
forward  and  stoop  for  a  moment  over  something  on 
the  ground.  The  next  second  he  was  mounted  on  a 
bicycle,  and  launched  in  swift  pursuit  of  the  aero- 
plane. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  captain,  as  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  companion's  face.  "What's  happened? 
It's  not  running  away.  I  see  the  boy  in  the  driver's 
seat." 

"So  do  I,"  Frank  snapped  back.  "It's  not  the  right 
boy,  though.  Some  one  has  meddled.  Rudd  is  be- 
hind on  the  bicycle." 

"Great  mercy!"  gasped  the  older  man,  startled  out 
of  his  calm.  "We  must  do  something!  We  must 
stop  her!" 

Frank  made  no  answer,  but  almost  at  once  he  ceased 
running  and  stood  still. 

The  aeroplane  was  headed  straight  toward  them, 
running  now  at  a  more  rapid  speed  than  before,  but 
still  on  the  ground. 

Merry   recognized  the   white,    frightened   face  of 


The  Hero  of  the  Air.  229 

Burton,  and  saw  him  frantically  seeking  with  both 
hands  to  find  some  way  of  stopping  the  thing.  Be- 
hind, Rudd,  on  the  bicycle,  was  rapidly  gaining.  If 
nothing  happened,  he  would  catch  up  with  the  ma- 
chine before  it  reached  the  two  waiting  men. 

"Burton!''  Merry  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
"Sit  still!  Touch  nothing!" 

Either  the  strong,  gusty  wind  carried  his  words 
away,  or  the  boy  was  too  far  gone  with  fright  to 
heed  them.  With  his  heart  in  his  throat,  Merry  saw 
those  flitting  hands  move  ceaselessly  among  the  levers. 
At  any  second  he  might  touch  one  which  would  ele- 
vate the  plane  and  send  him  into  the  air. 

Like  a  flash,  Rudd  rounded  one  tail  plane  and  shot 
inward.  With  a  lithe  spring  he  was  off  the  wheel 
and  leaping  toward  the  framework. 

An  instant  later,  Frank's  sigh  of  relief  changed  to 
a  gasp  of  horror.  Rudd's  fingers  had  scarcely  touched 
the  side  of  the  aeroplane,  close  to  the  empty  passen- 
ger seat,  when  Burton  yanked  at  something,  and  the 
great  machine  left  the  earth  in  a  long,  swooping  glide, 
which  took  it  just  over  the  heads  of  the  two  men. 

As  they  glanced  swiftly  upward,  they  caught  a 
single  glimpse  of  the  boy  clinging  to  the  framework, 
his  legs  dangling  without  support.  Then  the  mono- 
plane shot  onward  and  upward,  and  they  gazed  after 
it  with  white,  despairing  faces. 


'CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE     TRIUMPH     OF     GENIUS  , 

For  an  instant  they  stood  in  helpless,  petrified  si- 
lence. Then  the  captain  groaned. 

"They'll  both  be  killed!"  he  exclaimed.  "He'll  never 
make  it.  Look!" 

A  sudden  gust  striking  the  apparently  overbalanced 
machine,  it  tilted  dangerously,  one  wing  sweeping 
down,  down,  until  the  whole  thing  looked  as  if  it  were 
almost  on  edge. 

"If  it  touches  the  ground,  he's  lost,"  muttered  the 
older  man,  little  beads  of  perspiration  breaking  out  on 
his  forehead.  "It'll  crumple  like  a  sheet  of  paper." 

Frank  uttered  no  sound,  but  the  look  on  his  face 
showed  how  much  he  was  suffering.  He  was  blind 
and  deaf  to  everything  but  the  thing  upon  which  his 
every  sense  seemed  focused.  He  did  not  even  feel 
the  painful  grip  the  captain  had  on  his  ami. 

The  moment  seemed  like  an  eternity.  Then,  slowly, 
like  a  wounded  bird  putting  forth  every  effort  of  its 
strength,  one  great  wing  rose  little  by  little,  while 
the  other  depresesd  itself  to  bring  the  whole  back 
into  balance. 

The  breath  whistled  through  the  captain's  teeth, 
and  his  hold  on  Frank's  arm  relaxed.  Still  neither 
of  them  spoke.  The  monoplane  was  agitated  again 
and  again,  and  they  could  see  it  veer  from  one  side 
to  the  other  under  the  great  and  unusual  strain. 


The  Triumph  of  Genius.  231 

Scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  they  watched,  hoping  now 
against  hope,  that  the  boy  might,  after  all,  be  able  to 
master  it. 

As  the  winged  creature  swept  over  the  football  field 
every  voice  was  hushed,  every  sound  quelled,  until 
it  seemed  as  if  that  whole  great  crowd  of  boys  had 
been  stricken  breathless. 

Suddenly  a  low  moan  went  up,  more  eloquent  by 
far  than  the  loudest  clamor,  as  one  wing  tilted  dan- 
gerously again.  But,  as  before,  the  device  worked 
automatically  to  restore  equilibrium,  and  a  cheer, 
louder  than  any  which  had  greeted  the  good  work 
of  the  eleven,  arose  from  the  watching  boys,  as  they 
saw  that  Rudd  had  managed  to  lift  himself  over  the 
framework  and  reach  the  vacant  seat  Then  the  aero- 
plane was  swept  onward  over  the  fringe  of  trees  and 
out  of  sight. 

Then,  and  only  then,  did  the  tension  relax.  With 
a  deep  sigh,  Captain  Baldwin  took  out  a  handkerchief 
and  passed  it  over  his  moistened  forehead. 

"Marvelous!"  he  ejaculated.  "In  my  whole  experi- 
ence with  aeroplanes  I  have  never  seen  anything 
like  it." 

With  an  effort,  Frank  turned  from  where  he  was 
staring  vainly  after  the  vanished  monoplane,  and 
looked  at  his  companion. 

"The  test  could  not  very  well  have  been  more  se- 
vere," he  said  quietly.  "I  think  they  are  both  safe." 

Baldwin  nodded  emphatically. 

"Absolutely,"  he  agreed.  "A  boy  who  has  the  nerve 
to  do  what  he  did  will  make  small  work  of  getting  at 
the  control." 


232  The  Triumph  of  Genius. 

He  hesitated  an  instant,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

"The  perfection  of  the  device  is  proved  beyond  a 
doubt,"  he  went  on  quickly.  "There  can  be  no  possi- 
ble question  of  its  being  automatic!" 

"None  whatever.  The  boy  in  the  driver's  seat 
knows  nothing  about  operating.  He  could  not  possibly 
have  restored  the  equilibrium  by  anything  he  did." 

"Certainly  not.  That  is  out  of  the  question.  I  wish 
they'd  come  back.  I  shan't  feel  comfortable  until  a 
landing  is  made." 

"Nor  I,"  Merry  agreed,  "though  I  have  faith  in 
Rudd's  ability  to  manipulate  the  machine." 

They  started  rapidly  toward  the  field,  and  just  as 
they  reached  the  first  crowd  of  upward-staring  boys, 
a  shout  arose,  and  the  aeroplane  was  seen  above  the 
treetops,  headed  in  their  direction. 

Swiftly  it  approached,  buzzing  like  a  monster  hum- 
ming bird,  and  swooping  over  the  trees  and  down- 
ward toward  the  field  in  a  long,  easy  glide.  As  it 
came  on,  the  speed  was  cut  down. 

Perfectly  steady,  in  spite  of  the  gusty,  treacherous 
wind,  it  sailed  over  the  field  at  an  elevation  of  some 
fifty  feet.  Rudd  sat  in  the  driver's  seat,  his  face 
calm  and  composed  and  glowing  with  a  strange  light. 
Behind  him  cowered  the  meddling  Burton,  pallid  as 
a  sheet  of  paper,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and  clutching 
the  sides  of  the  seat  with  a  terror-stricken  grip. 

Amid  a  tense,  awe-struck  silence,  the  machine 
passed,  swooped  swiftly  down,  and  came  to  rest  gently 
on  the  open  ground  beyond,  after  running  some  dis-* 
tance  on  the  wheels. 


The  Triumph  of  Genius.  233 

Then,  as  Rucld  stepped  from  his  seat  and  turned 
to  help  out  his  frightened  passenger,  a  roar  of  delight 
and  relief  went  up  such  as  had  never  been  heard  on 
the  field  before,  and,  with  one  accord,  the  boys  started 
forward  in  a  wild  rush. 

Pell-mell  they  passed  Frank  and  his  companion.  In 
an  instant,  they  reached  the  young  aviator,  and,  pay- 
ing no  heed  to  his  protestations,  hoisted  him  up  to 
their  shoulders. 

He  protested  laughingly,  but  they  would  not  let 
him  down.  Instead,  they  turned  back,  and  bore  him 
toward  the  spot  where  the  two  men  stood,  the  air  re- 
sounding with  his  name  yelled  from  hundreds  of 
throats. 

As  they  let  him  slip,  at  last,  from  their  hold,  he 
stood  for  a  moment  with  flushed  face  and  slightly 
trembling  lips,  his  eyes,  bright  with  emotion,  staring 
into  those  calm,  level  ones  of  Baldwin. 

For  a  second  they  stood  thus,  the  man  who  had 
devoted  his  life  to  the  conquest  of  the  air,  and  had 
made  his  name  famous  the  world  over,  and  this  strip- 
ling in  his  teens.  Then  Baldwin  stepped  forward  ancj 
held  out  his  hand. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  with  his  pleasant,  transforming 
smile,  "I  congratulate  you.  You  have  done  some- 
thing which  many  men  have  so  far  striven  in  vain  to 
accomplish,  and  which  will  make  your  name  famous. 
Better  than  mere  fame,  however,  your  genius  has  re- 
sulted in  something  which  will  infinitely  lessen  the 
risks  of  aviation,  and  will  surely  revolutionize  the  con- 
struction of  aeroplanes." 

As  Rudd  gripped  the  hand  in  his,  he  had  to  catch 


234  The  Triumph  of  Genius. 

his  lips  between  his  teeth  to  keep  them  from  trembling. 
It  was  a  moment  of  happiness  and  triumph  such  as 
he  had  never  dreamed  of,  but  the  excitement  and  ten- 
sion he  had  just  been  through  made  him  unstrung. 

"Thank — you,  sir,"  he  stammered,  with  difficulty. 
"You  are — very — good  to  say — that." 

The  captain  laughed  a  little.  He  saw  the  boy's 
nervousness,  and  divined  its  cause  perfectly. 

"Not  good — only  truthful,"  he  returned  pleasantly. 
"Eh,  Frank?" 

He  glanced  around  at  Merry,  who  had  been  stand- 
ing a  little  behind  him,  his  face  reflecting  the  boy's 
joy  and  triumph. 

"Exactly,"  Merriwell  agreed,  smiling.  "Only  truth- 
ful. Suppose  you  show  the  captain  your  device,  Mor- 
gan. I  think  he's  anxious  to  inspect  it  in  detail." 

Thankful  for  something  which  would  take  the  uni- 
versal attention  away  from  him,  Rudd  hastened  to 
lead  the  v/ay  toward  the  aeroplane.  He  was  not  to 
escape  so  easily,  however.  The  boys  crowded  around 
him  once  more,  and  presently  their  voices  were  raised 
in  crashing  bursts  of  sound: 

"Rudd!    Rudd!    Rudd!" 

There  was  a  spontaneous  enthusiasm  in  the  sound 
which  brought  the  blood  pouring  back  into  the  boy's 
face  and  tingling  in  his  finger  tips.  Such  moments  do 
not  come  often,  but  they  are  well  worth  living  for. 

Slinking  over  the  field  toward  the  school,  head  down 
and  face  still  pallid,  was  another  boy,  to  whom  those 
cheers  were  like  so  many  knife  thrusts.  Strangely 
enough,  he  felt  no  envy,  only  a  bitter,  intense  regret, 


The  Triumph  of  Genius.  235 

for  those  few  dreadful  moments  had  taught  him  a  les- 
son which  would  never  be  forgotten. 

Soon  after  this  the  general  interest  of  Merriwell's 
lads  was  again  centered  in  football — principally  be- 
cause of  the  amusing  incidents  connected  with  the 
"breaking  in"  of  Billy  Cromwell  on  the  gridiron. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

BILLY  CROMWELL'S  ARRIVAL. 

When  Billy  Cromwell  arrived  at  Farnham  Hall,  late 
in  September,  he  never  had  seen  a  football.  But,  then, 
there  were  a  good  many  things  about  the  school  which 
were  new  to  Billy — so  new  and  strange,  in  fact,  as  to 
arouse  feelings  of  carefully  concealed  wonder  in  his 
mind. 

Billy  had  spent  every  one  of  his  sixteen  years  on  his 
father's  ranch  in  Arizona.  The  outfit  was  a  large 
one,  and  Billy  was  the  only  youngster  about  the  place. 
Consequently,  those  sixteen  years  had  been  one  long 
success||fi  of  joyous,  happy  days,  uncurbed  and  unre- 
strained'by  disagreeable  duties  or  trying  parental  in- 
terference. 

Billy  did  not  remember  his  mother.  She  had  died 
when  he  was  barely  a  year  old,  leaving  him  to  the 
care  of  his  father,  whose  mind  was  already  so  taken 
up  with  the  business  of  making  his  ranch  the  largest 
and  best  paying  in  the  State,  that  there  was  little  room 
left  for  bestowing  much  care  on  his  only  son. 

For  three  years  a  succession  of  Mexican  women, 
varied  now  and  then  by  one  of  good  old  American 
stock,  performed  the  duties  of  nurse.  Toward  the  end, 
their  arrival  and  departure  was  so  nearly  synonymous 
as  to  cause  the  elder  Cromwell  no  small  vexation. 

The  climax  was  reached  when  Billy  insinuated  a 
harmless,  but  extremely  active,  snake  between  the  sheets 


Billy  Cromwell's  Arrival.  237 

of  his  nurse's  bed,  throwing  the  woman  into  hysterics, 
and  causing  her  to  shake  the  dust  of  the  Cromwell 
ranch  house  from  her  feet  with  great  precipitation, 
and  to  the  accompaniment  of  some  home  truths  which 
were  much  to  the  point. 

She  was  the  last  of  a  long  line  of  harassed,  distracted 
females.  A  week  followed  during  which  John  Crom- 
well could  not  spare  the  time  necessary  for  going  to 
town.  Then,  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting 
— with  some  reluctance,  it  must  be  said — he  happened 
to  encounter  his  troublesome  offspring  astride  of  a 
small  pony  which  one  of  the  infatuated  cow-punchers 
had  secretly  broken  and  trained  to  docility.  This  he 
had  taught  the  child  to  ride. 

That  settled  the  nurse  question  for  good  and  all. 
A  boy  who  could  ride  as  fearlessly  and  well  as  this  one 
had  no  need  of  a  woman  to  look  after  him.  jdjjjp 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  Cromwell  turned  hrs  horse 
and  rode  back  to  the  distant  round-up,  and  Billy's  in- 
dependence dated  from  that  moment. 

Absolutely  fearless  and  with  a  very  winning  per- 
sonality, he  soon  became  the  pet  of  the  bunk  house  and 
spent  a  great  deal  more  time  there  than  with  his  father. 
The  punchers  taught  him  to  shoot  and  ride  and  rope, 
and  by  the  time  he  was  twelve  he  could  manage  any- 
thing in  the  way  of  horseflesh  on  the  ranch,  was  hard 
as  nails,  and  could  lick  his  weight  in  wild  cats  in  a 
rough-and-tumble,  unscientific  manner. 

He  was  often  away  from  the  ranch  house  for  weeks 
at  a  time,  visiting  the  different  line  camps  or  going  off 
into  the  mountains  by  himself  to  hunt. 

Several  times,  during  the  four  years  which  followed, 


238  Billy  Cromwell's  Arrival. 

his  father  insisted  upon  his  attending  the  nearest 
school,  which  was  twenty  miles  away.  There  Billy 
made  the  teacher's  life  so  miserable  that  she  was  only 
too  glad  to  forgive  his  long  and  frequently  repeated 
absences. 

The  result  was  that  he  reached  the  age  of  sixteen 
with  only  the  most  sketchy  sort  of  an  education,  and 
his  ignorance  of  so  many  things  which  boys  half  his 
age  have  at  their  tongue's  end  was  positively  ap- 
palling. 

Happily  for  him — though  he  did  not  see  it  in  that 
light — there  arrived  at  the  ranch  about  this  time  a 
friend  of  his  father's,  from  Chicago.  This  friend  at 
once  sensed  the  situation  and  lost  no  time  in  showing 
John  Cromwell  the  error  of  his  ways. 

"It's  perfectly  appalling,  John,"  he  said,  at  the  con- 
clusion of  a  caustic  little  exposition  of  the  facts. 
"You've  let  the  boy  run  wild,  and  he  doesn't  know  as 
much  as  the  average  child  of  ten.  You  should  send 
him  away  to  school  instantly." 

The  elder  Cromwell  flushed  guiltily. 

"I  reckon  you're  right,  Jim,"  he  acknowledged. 
"I've  had  so  much  on  my  mind  that  I've  let  things  slide. 
He's  been  to  school  over  at  Benson  every  winter  for 
three  years,  though.  I  sure  don't  see  what  he  did  with 
his  time  there." 

"Woman  teacher,  I  suppose,"  remarked  James  Blan- 
combe  shortly. 

Cromwell  nodded. 

"Sure,"  he  returned. 

"He  probably  spent  about  half  the  time  cutting  up 
and  the  other  half  playing  hooky,"  Blancombe  said 


Billy  Cromwell's  Arrival.  239 

shrewdly.  "What  he  needs  is  a  man's  hand.  Billy's 
as  nice  a  boy  as  I  ever  knew,  John,  but  he's  had  his 
own  way  so  long  that  he's  getting  spoiled.  What  you 
want  to  do  is  to  put  the  curb  on  right  away  and  send 
him  to  a  boy's  school  where  he'll  have  a  good,  healthy 
amount  of  discipline,  and  be  thrown  with  a  lot  of  boys 
his  own  age.  There's  nothing  like  it  to  show  a  chap 
that  he  isn't  the  only  little  pebble  on  the  beach." 

"That's  so,  Jim,"  Cromwell  admitted.  "I've  been  a 
fool  to  let  it  go  so  long.  Trouble  is  I  don't  know  beans 
about  schools,  and  I  might  get  him  into  a  bad  one  that 
would  be  a  heap  worse  than  none  at  all." 

"You  can't  make  a  mistake  if  you  send  him  to  the 
American  School  of  Athletic  Development,"  Blan- 
combe  returned.  "It's  run  by  a  man  named  Merriwell, 
who  is  the  best  all-round  chap  I  ever  met." 

He  proceeded  to  describe  the  school  in  detail,  and 
his  friend  heartily  approved  of  the  idea.  An  hour 
later  Billy  was  summoned,  and,  when  he  appeared, 
quite  unsuspecting  of  what  was  in  store  for  him,  he 
received  the  ultimatum. 

At  first  he  protested  strenuously,  but  with  absolutely 
no  effect.  When  John  Cromwell  made  up  his  mind  it 
took  something  like  a  cataclysm  of  nature  to  change 
him.  Finding  his  protests  unavailing,  Billy  grew  angry 
and  absolutely  refused  to  go.  He  was  speedily  brought 
to  a  realizing  sense  that  his  father  was  boss. 

Then  he  sulked,  but  he  might  have  spared  himself 
the  trouble.  When  James  Blancombe  started  for  Chi- 
cago, Billy,  clad  in  the  uncomfortable  and  unfamiliar 
garb  of  civilization,  as  conceived  by  the  proprietor  of 
the  general  store  at  Benton,  accompanied  him. 


240  Billy  Cromwell's  Arrival. 

By  this  time  he  was  resigned  to  the  inevitable,  for 
he  was  too  sensible  to  make  himself  uncomfortable  by 
clinging  to  a  grouch  when  there  was  nothing  to  be 
gained  thereby.  Nevertheless,  he  did  not  view  the 
prospect  before  him  with  the  least  enthusiasm.  The 
thought  of  being  confined  in  a  school,  with  a  lot  of 
hateful  teachers  to  order  him  around,  was  far  from 
being  in  pleasant  contrast  to  the  free,  untrammeled  life 
he  had  always  led. 

"There'll  be  a  lot  of  fool  kids,  too,"  he  thought  con- 
temptuously, "who  don't  know  how  to  do  a  darned 
thing  but  study  and  play  silly  games.  I  sure  don't  see 
how  I'm  going  to  stand  it  without  seeing  the  boys  for 
so  long,  or  having  broncs  to  break,  or  anything  that's 
any  fun." 

His  traveling  companion,  making  a  shrewd  guess  as 
to  what  the  boy's  attitude  would  be,  tried  diplomati- 
cally to  prepare  him  a  little  for  what  he  would  have  to 
expect  when  he  landed  in  the  midst  of  four  hundred 
odd  boys  of  all  ages  and  temperaments. 

It  was  impossible,  however,  to  convey  to  a  chap, 
whose  horizon  was  so  limited,  a  conception  of  what  he 
would  be  up  against.  Blancombe,  therefore,  with  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world,  only  succeeded  in  strength- 
ening Billy's  belief  that  he,  "a  man  of  the  world,"  who 
had  seen  life  in  the  rough  and  lived  with  real  men, 
was  doomed  to  a  long  sojourn  among  a  crowd  of  im- 
mature boys. 

He  gathered  one  fact,  however,  which  pleased  him. 
Evidently  his  waking  time  would  not  be  devoted  en- 
tirely to  study.  There  were,  according  to  Blancombe, 
frequent  periods  of  relaxation,  during  which  one  might 


Billy  Cromwell's  Arrival.  241 

accomplish  many  things.  The  prospect  was  not  un- 
attractive. 

"I  don't  s'pose  they  ever  saw  a  cow-puncher,"  he 
thought.  "I'll  show  'em  the  real  article.  I'll  make 
'em  sit  up  and  take  notice.  I  reckon  there'll  be  some 
fun  in  that." 

The  more  he  considered,  the  more  the  prospect  ap- 
pealed to  him. 

"I  sure  will,"  he  murmured  softly.  "I'll  have  'em 
'feeding  out  of  my  hand  inside  a  week." 

But  Billy  still  had  many  things  to  learn. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

FIRST    IMPRESSIONS. 

Through  some  mistake  of  James  Blancombe's,  they 
arrived  at  Bloomfield  a  day  late,  and  thus  missed  being 
one  of  the  crowd  of  boys  returning  from  the  summer 
yacation,  or  entering  school  for  the  first  time. 

The  train,  instead  of  being  crowded  to  its  utmost 
capacity  by  a  joking,  laughing,  wriggling  mob  of 
youthful  humanity,  was  comparatively  empty.  So  was 
the  station,  with  its  hacks  which  had  been  in  such  de- 
mand the  day  before;  so  was  the  winding  ribbon  of  a 
road  circling  picturesquely  past  well-kept  farms  inter- 
spersed with  stretches  of  pasture  land  and  woods. 

The  boy  was  languidly  interested  in  these  evidences 
of  the  rural  nature  of  the  neighborhood,  but  con- 
temptuous, withal,  at  the  cramped,  restricted  scope  of 
the  farms.  Compared  with  those  in  the  West,  they 
were  puny  indeed.  Still,  he  was  glad  to  find  the  school 
located  where  there  was  enough  space  in  which  to 
breathe. 

His  condescension  wore  a  bit  thin,  however,  as  the 
horse  emerged  from  a  stretch  of  pine-bordered  road, 
turned  in  between  two  great  posts  of  rough  stone,  and 
took  the  wide,  curving  driveway  at  a  walk. 

There  was  something  about  the  whole  picture  spread 
out  before  him  which  made  Billy  straighten  up  involun- 
tarily and  sweep  back  the  straggling  lock  of  yellow  hair 
that  trailed  down  over  his  gray  eyes. 

A  great  mass  of  buildings,  built  of  mellowed  red 


First  Impressions.  243 

brick,  occupied  the  upper  end  of  a  wide  plateau.  Be- 
hind them,  forming  a  setting  of  dark  green,  was  a 
stretch  of  woods;  while  on  the  other  side,  extending 
for  a  considerable  distance,  was  a  level,  grassy  expanse 
at  least  half  a  mile  long,  beyond  which  a  rather  abrupt 
slope  led  down  to  the  edge  of  a  fair-sized  lake. 

Though  Billy  did  not  realize  it,  the  situation  had 
been  chosen  with  great  care,  and  was  an  ideal  one  for 
its  purpose.  The  open  expanse  of  turf  served,  in 
part,  as  an  athletic  field.  In  the  middle  was  the  dia- 
mond and  gridiron.  On  one  side  a  number  of  perfect 
tennis  courts  had  been  constructed.  The  lake  was 
handy  for  water  sports  in  the  summer,  or  skating  and 
ice  hockey  in  the  winter. 

Though  the  boy  from  Arizona  would  have  denied 
the  accusation  indignantly,  he  felt  an  odd  thrill  which 
he  could  not  understand,  as  his  eyes  roamed  over  the 
whole  panorama  and  returned  swiftly  to  the  build- 
ings, before  which  a  number  of  figures  were  strolling 
about,  or  sprawling  upon  the  steps. 

His  ideas  as  to  what  Farnham  Hall  would  be  like 
had  been  vague,  but  they  were  certainly  nothing  like 
the  reality.  This  was  so  much  bigger  than  anything 
he  had  ever  imagined  that  he  felt  just  a  little  awed,  and 
it  suddenly  came  to  him  that  other  things  about  the 
school  might  be  different  as  welL 

The  instant  he  realized  the  trend  of  his  thoughts, 
however,  he  scowled  fiercely  and  assumed  an  expres- 
sion of  bored  indifference.  Those  boys,  now  glancing 
curiously  toward  the  approaching  carriage,  must  never 
be  allowed  to  imagine  that  this  was  not  an  everyday 
experience  with  him. 


244  First  Impressions. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  stepped  out  a  moment  or  two 
later  and  reached  for  his  wicker  suit  case,  he  was  pain- 
fully conscious  of  that  battery  of  eyes  directed  upon 
him,  and  when  he  turned  and  walked  toward  the  steps, 
it  was  extremely  difficult  to  do  it  in  the  natural,  indif- 
ferent manner  which  he  had  planned. 

He  realized  suddenly  that  his  trousers  were  much 
too  tight  and  that  his  coat  was  riding  up  on  his  neck. 
The  vivid  plaid,  which  he  had  thought  rather  fetch- 
ing, became  strident  until  it  almost  shrieked  aloud.  He 
felt  his  ears  begin  to  burn,  and,  before  he  had  stum- 
bled past  the  group,  who  did  not  utter  a  word,  but 
only  looked,  his  face  was  flaming  with  embarrassment 
and  his  ire  rapidly  was  mounting  to  fever  heat. 

He  was  angry  with  himself  for  having  been  so  easily 
"fussed"  by  a  lot  of  immature,  inexperienced  boys. 
He  was  furious  at  Blancombe  for  having  been  the 
means  of  his  being  here  instead  of  on  the  ranch,  where 
he  belonged  and  where  he  felt  at  home.  He  was  also 
more  than  provoked  that  the  older  man  had  done  noth- 
ing to  help  him  preserve  his  attitude  of  indifference  as 
he  ran  that  gantlet  of  curious  eyes.  If  only  his  com- 
panion had  engaged  him  in  conversation  it  would  have 
been  vastly  easier. 

The  result  was  that,  by  the  time  he  landed  in  Frank 
Merriwell's  office,  he  was  mad  all  over  and  ready  to 
let  loose  his  temper  at  the  slightest  provocation.  He 
would  show  this  principal,  or  whatever  he  was,  that 
there  was  one  youth,  at  least,  who  was  not  going  to 
be  so  easy  to  handle  as  this  crowd  of  immature  East- 
erners. He  would  make  it  plain  from  the  first  that  he 
was  not  in  that  class  at  all. 


First  Impressions.  245 

Just  how  he  meant  to  go  about  it  he  did  not  know. 
There  was,  in  fact,  no  time  at  all  in  which  to  plan 
anything,  for  Blancombe  did  not  pause  in  the  hall, 
but  made  at  once  for  a  door  on  the  right.  The  next 
moment  Billy,  his  face  still  somewhat  flushed  and  his 
expression  more  sullen  than  usual,  found  himself  in  a 
large,  square,  well-lighted  room,  furnished  plainly  but 
thoroughly,  and  occupied  by  a  young  and  impressive 
man. 

The  latter  arose  instantly  and  greeted  Blancombe 
warmly.  As  Billy  watched  him  and  listened  to  his 
voice,  the  rebellious,  angry  mood  began  to  wear  thin. 
The  man  was  so  totally  different  from  anything  he  had 
ever  fancied,  that  the  boy's  interest  was  at  once 
aroused.  A  little  later,  when  Merriwell  shook  hands 
with  him  and  began  to  ask  a  few  questions,  he  found 
himself  talking  about  his  life  on  the  ranch  with  a  free- 
dom from  either  embarrassment  or  animosity.  This 
change  astonished  him  as  he  thought  about  it  later. 

His  heart  warmed  toward  this  man  who  knew  ranch 
life  so  well,  and  who,  it  appeared,  actually  owned  a  big 
outfit  in  Wyoming.  He  felt,  somehow,  as  if  he  had 
met  a  kindred  spirit  who  understood  him  and  could 
sympathize  with  his  feelings  at  being  brought  from  the 
free,  boundless  life  on  the  open  range  to  the  compara- 
tively cramped,  confining  limits  of  civilization. 

"It  will  be  a  little  hard  at  first,"  Merriwell  concluded, 
"to  get  used  to  the  change,  but  I  think  you  soon  will 
come  to  see  that  there  are  advantages  quite  apart  from 
those  of  education.  A  school  like  this  is  really  a  little 
world  in  itself,  and  you  come  up  against  most  of  the 
difficulties  and  problems  you  encounter  later  in  life. 


246  First  Impressions. 

You'll  have  to  make  your  way  by  effort  and  ability — 
by  doing  things  which  will  win  the  liking  and  respect 
of  those  about  you — by  standing  on  your  own  feet,  in 
other  words.  I  don't  think  you  will  find  the  life  here 
uninteresting." 

He  paused  an  instant,  but  Cromwell  made  no  com- 
ment. 

"You  don't  agree  with  me?"  Merry  went  on,  read- 
ing the  boy's  face  like  an  open  book. 

"Not — exactly,  sir,"  Billy  stammered.  "After  the 
ranch,  this  will  be  rather — tame." 

A  shadowy  smile -flickered  across  Frank's  expressive 
countenance.  Other  boys  had  come  to  Farnham  Hall 
with  the  same  idea,  and  had  speedily  changed  their 
minds. 

"Whatever  else  you  may  find  it,"  he  said  quietly,  "I 
don't  think  it  will  be  that.  Do  you  play  football?" 

"No,  sir.    I've  never  seen  a  game." 

Merriwell's  eyes  flitted  over  the  lithe,  muscular  fig- 
ure of  the  boy  before  him  and  came  to  rest  on  the 
clean-cut,  bronzed  face. 

"You'll  learn,"  he  said  incisively.  "You  ought  to 
make  good  at  it,  too.  You've  just  the  build  for  end. 
But  that  will  all  come  later.  Just  now  I'll  have  one 
of  the  boys  show  you  your  room  and  introduce  you  to 
some  of  the  fellows.  You  can  take  to-day  to  get  set- 
tled down,  and  start  in  with  the  rest  to-morrow." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  Cromwell  answered,  with  an  ex- 
cess of  that  bored,  slightly  indifferent  manner  which 
had  cropped  out  every  now  and  then  during  the  con- 
yersation. 

Merriwell's  lips  parted  as  if  he  meant  to  say  some- 


First  Impressions.  247 

thing,  but  they  closed  again  almost  as  quickly.  His 
first  impulse  had  been  to  give  Cromwell  a  bit  of  advice 
regarding  his  attitude  toward  the  boys  he  was  about  to 
meet.  He  decided,  however,  that  it  would  be  quite 
wasted.  The  youth  from  Arizona  was  one  of  those 
who  have  to  learn  most  things  by  experience,  and  this 
was  one  of  them. 

The  realization  that  life  here  was  very  different  from 
what  the  Western  lad  had  imagined  it;  the  discovery 
that  he  was  of  vastly  little  less  importance  among 
this  crowd  of  boys  than  he  supposed,  might  be  more 
or  less  painful  and  humiliating,  but  it  would  be  good 
discipline. 

Therefore  Merry  kept  his  peace,  but  there  was  an 
odd  expression  in  his  eyes  as  he  bent  over  and  pressed 
a  button  on  his  desk. 

When  the  attendant  appeared,  a  moment  or  two 
later,  Merry  hesitated  for  a  few  moments. 

"Find  Herman  Coors,  Robert,"  he  said  at  length, 
"and  ask  him  to  step  in  here  for  a  moment." 

Since  the  disillusioning  process  was  necessary,  it 
might  as  well  be  done  thoroughly  and  well. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

STARTING  WRONG. 

As  the  door  opened  a  little  later,  Billy  could  not 
help  glancing  curiously  in  that  direction.  He  saw  a 
lithe,  lean,  tall  chap,  somewhere  near  his  own  age, 
whose  hair  and  eyes  were  of  almost  the  same  shade 
of  brown,  and  upon  whose  tanned  face  dwelt  an  ex- 
pression of  guileless  innocence  which  made  the  fellow 
from  Arizona  curl  his  lips  slightly. 

"You  wished  to  speak  to  me,  sir?"  inquired  the  new- 
comer, in  a  gentle,  rather  drawling  voice. 

Merry's  face  was  quite  serious,  but  an  odd  twinkle 
lurked  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"Yes,  Coors,"  he  returned  briskly;  "I  want  you  to 
know  Cromwell,  from  Arizona,  who  has  just  arrived." 

The  brown-haired  chap  looked  at  Billy  with  widen- 
ing eyes,  and  then  came  slowly  forward. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,"  he  drawled,  extending  a  some- 
what limp  hand. 

With  a  feeling  of  grim  pleasure,  Billy  gripped  the 
unresisting  fingers  with  a  vigor  which  brought  a  half- 
stifled  exclamation  from  Coors'  lips,  and  caused  him  to 
snatch  his  hand  away  with  the  greatest  precipitation, 
a  spasm  of  pain  crossing  his  face  at  the  same  instant. 

Merriwell,  apparently  not  noticing  the  little  incident, 
went  on  at  once : 

"I  wish  you'd  show  Cromwell  to  his  room,  Coors. 
It's  number  eight  on  your  corridor.  After  that  you 


Starting  Wrong.  249 

might  take  him  down  and  introduce  him  to  some  of 
the  boys." 

Coors  ceased  nursing  his  hand  and  dropped  it  to 
his  side. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  he  acquiesced,  without  any  very 
great  enthusiasm. 

Taking  the  key  from  Frank,  he  turned  toward  the 
door,  and  then  paused  a  moment  while  Billy  picked 
up  his  bag  and  followed  him.  A  moment  later  they 
were  out  in  the  hall,  with  the  office  door  closed  behind 
them. 

"Say!"  exclaimed  Coors,  regarding  his  companion 
with  some  displeasure.  "Do  you  always  shake  hands 
like  that?" 

"Like  what?"  Billy  inquired  innocently. 

"The  way  you  did  with  me." 

"Why,  what  was  the  matter  with  it?"  Cromwell 
asked,  elevating  his  eyebrows  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  Coors  retorted,  in  a  slightly  injured 
tone.  "Only  you  came  near  breaking  the  bones  in  my 
fingers." 

Billy  smiled  wickedly. 

"Didn't  know  you  were  so  soft,"  he  returned,  in  a 
sarcastic  tone. 

"I'm  not!"  Coors  rejoined  indignantly.  "Even  if 
you_do  have  a  lot  of  muscle,  it  don't  follow  you've  got 
to  use  it  all  every  time  you  shake  hands." 

"All!"  exclaimed  Cromwell.  "If  you  think  that's 
all  the  muscle  I've  got,  you're  sure  away  off." 

Somewhat  mollified  by  the  look  of  awe  on  his  com- 
panion's face,  he  went  on  in  a  slightly  patronizing  tone : 

"Why,  out  in  Arizona  we  don't  think  anything  of 


250  Starting  Wrong. 

handling  a  steer  on  the  peck  without  any  help  at  all, 
£nd  that  sure  takes  some  strength,  I  tell  you." 

Coors'  eyes  widened  alarmingly. 

"What's  on  the  peck  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  puzzled  tone. 

"Mad — crazy  mad,"  Cromwell  explained  patroniz- 
ingly. "They  run  amuck  sometimes  and  try  to  gore 
anybody  or  anything  they  see." 

"Gee !"  exclaimed  Coors.  "And  you  tackle  them  all 
by  yourself?" 

"Sure.    Throw  'em  with  a  rope  and  tie  'em  fast." 

"Whew !"  Coors  whistled.  "I  wouldn't  like  that  for 
a  cent.  Don't  they  ever  get  loose  and  gore  you  ?" 

Billy  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  sure,"  he  answered  airily.  "You  have  to  run 
the  risk,  though.  I  once  saw  a  man  killed  that  way, 
but,  then,  he  wasn't  much  more  than  a  tenderfoot." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  room,  and  Coors 
gave  a  slight  shudder  as  he  unlocked  the  door  and 
threw  it  open.  He  was  evidently  greatly  impressed  by 
his  companion's  nonchalance,  and  the  indifferent  man- 
ner in  which  he  spoke  of  having  witnessed  the  goring 
to  death  of  a  human  being. 

"My  gracious !"  he  exclaimed,  as  they  stepped  inside 
the  door.  "I  suppose  you've  seen  lots  of  desperate 
things  done.  Do  you  live  on  a  ranch  ?" 

"Sure — biggest  one  in  Arizona — two  hundred  thou- 
sand head  of  steers  on  the  range  of  over  a  million 
acres." 

Coors  gasped. 

"A  million  acres !"  he  repeated  incredulously.  "Are 
you  trying  to  string  me?" 


Starting  Wrong.  251 

"Not  a  bit,"  assured  Cromwell,  pleased  by  the  other's 
astonishment.  "It  covers  over  half  of  a  county." 

Apparently  almost  stunned  with  amazement,  Coors 
dropped  into  a  chair  and  cogitated  for  a  moment  in 
silence. 

"And  horses?"  he  questioned  dazedly. 

"Thousands  of  'em,"  was  the  nonchalant  reply. 

"You — didn't  ever  break  one  of  those — er — wild 
bronchos,  did  you  ?"  queried  the  brown-haired  chap. 

Billy  laughed. 

"Hundreds  of  'em,"  he  retorted.  "Why,  that's  my 
specialty  at  the  ranch,  kiddo.  The  boys  used  to  call 
me  Broncho  Bill,  you  know." 

"Gee!"  came  in  awe-struck  tones.  "Think  of  thatl 
Broncho  Bill !  What  a  corking  name !" 

Billy  was  now  thoroughly  enjoying  himself.  The 
wondering  admiration  of  this  fellow  was  as  incense  to 
his  nostrils,  and  was  but  a  forerunner  of  the  attitude 
the  whole  school  would  probably  adopt  toward  him. 
He  was  not  given  to  boasting,  but  he  had  not  been 
able  to  resist  the  gasping  astonishment  of  this  ex- 
tremely verdant  tenderfoot,  and  had  even  gone  to  the 
length  of  embroidering  a  tasteful  little  pattern  on  the 
solid  ground  of  truth. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  he  said,  taking  his  seat  on  the 
edge  .of  the  table  and  swinging  one  foot  carelessly. 
"All  the  boys  have  names  like  that.  Sometimes  they 
call  me  Billy,  the  Kid,  after  the  famous  outlaw  who 
shot  up  so  many  men,  you  know." 

"Gracious !"  burst  from  Coors,  in  a  tone  of  excite- 
ment. "You  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  was  any— 
that  you  ever " 


2252  Starting  Wrong. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  never  did  anything  like  that,"  the 
boy  from  Arizona  put  in,  his  accent  intimating  as 
plainly  as  could  be  that  he  was,  nevertheless,  still  a 
pretty  bad  nut. 

Coors  bent  forward,  both  hands  grasping  the  chair 
arms,  his  eyes  open  to  their  widest  extent. 

"Billy,"  he  almost  whispered,  "you  didn't — ever — 
shoot  a  man,  did  you?" 

His  tone  was  that  of  one  hoping  against  hope,  and 
Billy  could  not  resist  it.  He  glanced  out  of  the  win- 
dow, his  face  set  in  lines  of  sorrowful  regret  for  the 
misdeeds  of  which  he  had  never  been  guilty. 

"Twice,"  he  murmured.  "Of  course,"  he  went  on, 
spurred  by  a  gurgle  from  Coors,  "one  of  'em  was  an 
outlaw  and  would  have  killed  me  if  I  hadn't  drawn 

first.  The  other Well,  it  was  my  devilish  temper. 

I  see  red  when  I'm  riled,  you  know,  and  this  man  got 
tip  against  me  at  his  own  risk.  Still,  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  him  as  he  lay  there — his  face " 

He  broke  off  with  a  very  realistic  shudder  and 
glanced  about  the  room  as  if  in  an  attempt  to  get  away 
from  the  unpleasant  memories  aroused  by  this  effective, 
but  wholly  fictitious,  child  of  his  fertile  brain. 

"Not  a  bad  room,"  he  commented  condescendingly. 
"I  reckon  I'll  be  fairly  comfortable  here.  Of  course 
I'm  used  to  roughing  it,  though." 

In  reality  the  room  was  far  better  than  any  he  had 
ever  had,  but  it  would  never  do  to  allow  that  fact  to 
be  suspected. 

Coors  was  not  interested  in  the  matter,  however. 
He  was  impatient  to  get  downstairs  again  and  intro- 


Starting  Wrong.  253 

duce  to  his  particular  friends  this  unusual  and  thrill- 
ing addition  to  the  school. 

"Don't  stop  now  to  unpack  your  bag,"  he  urged. 
"Come  on  down  and  meet  the  fellows.  They'll  be 
crazy  to  see  you  and  hear  about  some  of  the  things 
you've  been  through." 

So  Cromwell,  after  holding  back  a  little  for  the  sake 
of  effect,  presently  gave  in  and  accompanied  his  nc\y 
acquaintance  downstairs.  His  spirits  had  increased 
wonderfully,  and  he  no  longer  regarded  the  school  ex- 
perience as  an  unmitigated  bore.  He  would  have  the 
time  of  his  life  stuffing  these  innocents  full  of  all  sorts 
of  stories.  Already  he  saw  himself  the  center  of  an 
interested  group,  each  member  of  which  hanging  on 
his  words  and  listening  to  his  experiences  with  awed 
amazement,  evincing  in  their  every  gesture  and  ex- 
pression the  intense  respect  they  held  for  this  boy, 
whose  life  had  been  crowded  full  of  such  varied  and 
blood-stirring  perils. 

He  had  no  fear  of  his  stock  of  stories  failing  him. 
The  cow-punchers  on  the  ranch,  in  years  gone  by, 
had  stuffed  him  exactly  as  he  purposed  stuffing  his  new 
and  more  innocent  companions.  He  had  only  to  re- 
peat these  interesting  tales,  with  or  without  adornment, 
and,  when  in  doubt,  he  had  a  vivid  imagination. 

He  .almost  laughed  aloud  as  he  considered  the  allur- 
ing prospect.  Why,  it  was  like  taking  candy  from  art 
infant  in  arms !  He  would  own  the  school  in  less  than 
forty-eight  hours. 

As  has  been  remarked,  Billy  had  much  to  learn.  His 
first  lesson  was  fast  approaching,  however. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE   FIRST   LESSON. 

As  the  two  boys  emerged  upon  the  stone  terrace 
which  ran  along  the  front  of  the  building,  Billy  saw 
that  there  were  only  eight  or  ten  fellows  left  of  the 
much  larger  number  which  had  been  there  when  he 
drove  up  a  little  while  before. 

,Had  he  carried  his  observation  farther,  instead  of 
allowing  his  mind  to  dwell  upon  the  impression  he 
was  going  to  make,  he  might  have  noticed  the  air  of 
eager  expectation  pervading  the  group.  This  was  ap- 
parent in  the  swift  turning  of  each  head  as  the  sound 
of  footsteps  resounded  on  the  flagging. 

The  eyes  bent  upon  him  were  not  filled  altogether 
with  curiosity,  either,  though  Billy  saw  only  that. 
There  was  a  faint  undercurrent  of  suppressed  mirth, 
stronger  in  some  than  in  others,  according  to  their 
measure  of  self-control. 

"Fellows,"  said  Coors,  breaking  the  silence,  "we  lit- 
tle knew  what  was  in  store  for  us  when  that  carriage 
drove  up  this  morning.  This  is  William  Cromwell, 
alias  Billy,  the  Kid,  alias  Broncho  Bill,  formally  a 
cow-puncher  on  his  father's  ranch  in  Arizona." 

Billy  was  no  fool,  and,  at  this  decidedly  unexpected 
manner  of  introduction,  he  turned  swiftly  and  shot  a 
glance  of  suspicion  at  Coors.  The  latter's  face,  how- 
ever, was  so  innocent  and  guileless,  so  evidently  earnest 
and  sincere,  that  the  Westerner  decided  he  must  have 


The  First  Lesson.  253 

been  wrong,  and  he  fixed  his  gaze  again  upon  the 
group,  having  thus  missed  a  sudden  convulsion  on  the 
part  of  one  boy,  which  was  as  swiftly  squelched  by  a 
sharp,  admonitory  prod  from  the  elbow  of  another. 

Each  face  was  now  grave  and  serious,  with  a  more 
or  less  gratifying  expression  of  awed  amazement 

"A  cow-puncher?"  exclaimed  one. 

"Gee!    What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

"Billy,  the  Kid!"  cried  another.  "Why,  he  was  a 
desperate  outlaw.  You  don't  mean  to  say,  Herm,  that 
Cromwell " 

"I  say  nothing,"  Coors  broke  in,  with  significant 
emphasis.  "I  only  know  that's  what  they  called  him. 
Cowboys  have  a  way,  I  believe,  of  hitting  the  nail  on 
the  head." 

'A  simultaneous  gasp  arose  from  the  astonished 
group. 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  Don  Shasta,  thin,  wiry,  and 
black-haired.  "That's  going  some.  Say,  Bill,  you 
never  really  shot  anybody,  did  you?" 

Cromwell  hesitated  an  instant,  a  curious  feeling  of 
shame  coming  over  him.  For  the  first  time  he  realized 
that  he  was  telling  an  out-and-out  lie.  Before,  it  had 
seemed  rather  a  good  joke  to  stuff  the  innocent  appear- 
ing Coors  full  of  nonsense,  but  to  stand  up  before  a 
crowd  and  repeat  it  all,  was  rather  different.  Still, 
having  committed  himself,  he  could  not  very  well  back 
water  without  making  himself  a  laughingstock,  so  he 
resolved  to  brazen  it  out. 

"I  had  to  shoot  an  outlaw  once,"  he  replied  shortly. 

"But  the  other,"  Coors  urged  eagerly.  "Tell  'em 
about  the  time  you  saw  red." 


The  First  Lesson. 

Billy  felt  his  face  growing  decidedly  florid,  and  his 
eyes  sought  the  ground. 

"I'd  rather  not  talk  about  that,"  he  began,  "It 
isn't " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  threw  back  his  head  in  a 
startled  way.  The  pent-up  emotions  of  Jack  Ranleigh 
had  found  vent  in  a  shriek  of  hysterical  laughter  which 
;was  like  a  spark  of  gunpowder.  Instantly  a  roar  of 
delight  arose  from  the  group,  mingled  with  a  Catling 
ifire  of  joshing  exclamations: 

"Oh,  you  Broncho  Bill!" 

"You  Billy,  the  Kid!" 

"He  saw  red  and  shot  a  man !" 

"And  now  he  don't  like  to  talk  about  it  I" 

"Ain't  he  the  bold,  ba-ad  boy !" 

"Does  he  carry  a  gun?" 

"Sure  he  does." 

"Search  him  and  see." 

"I'm  sca't  to." 

"What  of?" 

"He  might  see  red  and  shoot  me  up." 

With  scarlet  face  and  drooping  jaw,  Billy  stared  at 
the  joyous,  grinning,  transformed  faces  of  the  fellows 
before  him.  For  a  second  he  did  not  understand,  for 
it  had  all  come  about  so  suddenly.  Then,  with  the 
blood  tingling  in  his  very  finger  tips,  he  realized  that 
they  were  making  game  of  him.  The  whole  thing  had 
been  a  put-up  job  from  the  very  first. 

He  whirled  furiously  on  Coors,  only  to  be  met  with 
an  even  broader  grin  than  showed  on  any  of  the  other 
faces.  The  wide,  generous  mouth  was  parted  over 
two  rows  of  perfect  teeth,  and  the  brown  eyes  were 


The  First  Lesson.  255* 

almost  invisible  as  the  fellow  fairly  shook  with  the 
intensity  of  his  mirth. 

As  Coors  met  Cromwell's  baleful  glare  he  choked 
convulsively. 

"Look  out  how  he  shakes  hands  with  you,  fellows," 
Coors  gasped.  "He's  got  a  grip  like  iron  that'll 
break  every  bone  in  your  hands.  He  goes  out  every 
morning  before  breakfast  and  ties  up  a  ramping,  roar- 
ing steer  for  exercise,  all  by  his  little  self.  His 
specialty  is  the  breaking  of  those  wild,  fiery,  untamed 
horses  of  the  plains,  known  in  the  vernacular  as 
broncs.  He's  subdued  thousands  by  the  power  of  his 
awful  eye  alone.  When  he  fastens  that  orb  upon  them, 
they  crumple  before  him,  their  spirit  is  gone,  they  roll 
over  at  his  command  and  speak  cutely  when  he  so  de- 
sires. He's  the  only,  original,  red-eyed  cowboy  from 
the  great  and  woolly "  j 

Cromwell  waited  to  hear  no  more.  His  first  im- 
pulse had  been  to  fling  himself  upon  the  taunting 
wretch  and  fight  it  out  then  and  there.  A  swift  sec- 
ond thought,  however,  told  him  that  he  would  neve* 
stand  a  show  against  the  whole  bunch,  who__would  un* 
doubtedly  come  to  the  rescue  of  one  of  their  number. 
He  would  have  to  wait  until  he  got  his  tormentoi? 
alone  before  he  administered  the  well-deserved  pun-t 
ishment.  | 

Flight  was  the  only  other  way  whereby  he  could 
escape  the  lash  of  that  mocking,  laughing  voice;  so  he 
turned,  and,  dashing  past  Coors,  flung  himseli  against 
the  door  and  disappeared  within. 

For  a  second  he  halted  inside  to  get  his  breath  and 


2$S  The  First  Lesson. 

compose  his  features,  and,  as  he  stood  there,  he  heard 
one  of  the  crowd  outside  gasp  in  a  strangled  voice : 

"Ever  run  up  against  anything  like  that  in  Colo- 
rado, Hermie?" 

"Can't  say  I  have,"  laughed  Coors,  "and  we've  had 
a  great  line  of  punchers  in  the  outfit,  too." 

Billy  gave  a  start  and  hastened  on  through  the  hall. 
Colorado !  Outfit !  Was  it  possible  that 

Suddenly  he  darted  forward  and  caught  a  passing 
boy  by  the  arm. 

"You  know  Herman  Coors?"  he  demanded  without 
preamble. 

The  astonished  youngster  wriggled  out  of  his  grasp 
and  skipped  off  a  few  feet 

"Sure,"  he  retorted.  "Say,  what's  biting  you,  any- 
how ?  You  act  like  you  were  bughouse." 

"Where's  he  come  from?"  Cromwell  asked  shortly. 
"'Where's  his  home?" 

:     "On  a  ranch  in  Colorado,"  retorted  the  boy  with 
jequal  brevity.    "What's  up?" 

Billy  made  no  answer,  but  strode  away,  his  face 
'frowning  and  the  color  slowly  rising  again.  He  had 
been  fooled  and  made  game  of.  Coors  had  deliberately 
led  him  on  by  pretending  ignorance  of  anything  West- 
ern, whereas  he  was  really  a  Western  boy  himself, 
and  very  likely  knew  as  much  about  ranch  life  as 
Billy  did. 

"It's  a  dirty  trick!"  the  latter  burst  out  furiously 
\vhen  he  had  gained  his  room.  "He  did  it  all  on  pur- 
pose, and  if  I  don't  pay  up  the  low-down  coyote  good 
and  proper  for  it,  I'm  a  liar!  I'll  show  him  it  isn't 
healthy  to  play  tricks  on  Bill  Cromwell." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE    PROGRESS    OF    BILLY, 

Billy  Cromwell  lay  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  to  one  side 
of  the  football  field  and  scowled.  In  the  one  short 
week  since  his  entrance  to  Farnham  Hall  his  whole 
scheme  of  life  had  been  upset  and  turned  topsy-turvy. 

The  feeling  of  patronizing  superiority  with  which 
he  had  at  first  looked  down  upon  his  inexperienced,  im- 
mature companions  had  lasted  a  scant  twenty-four 
hours.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  had  been  forced 
to  the  realization  that,  while  they  might  be  inexperi- 
enced regarding  a  few  details  of  ranch  life,  they  were 
yery  wise  about  everything  else  under  the  sun. 

Looking  back  upon  that  revolutionary  week,  he 
found  himself  wondering  at  his  belief  that  he  could 
string  them  with  faked-up  stories  of  his  life  in  the 
West.  Never  for  an  instant  had  one  of  them  beefl 
fooled.  Instead,  they  had  deftly  turned  the  tables  and 
got  the  laugh  on  him  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

Not  since  that  first  humiliating  experience  had  Billy 
let  fall  a  word  of  his  Western  experiences,  either  real 
or  fictional.  The  lesson  had  been  a  bitter  one,  but  it 
was  effectual.  His  lips  were  forever  sealed  on  that 
subject,  but  there  seemed  to  be  innumerable  other  ways 
in  which  his  companions,  adept  as  they  were  by  long 
practice,  could  work  up  schemes  to  fool  him. 

Time  and  time  again,  after  he  had  bitten  Jike  a 
sucker,  he  yowed  that  he  would  never  believe  a  thing 


260  The  Progress  of  Billy. 

anybody  told  him.  Sometimes  not  an  hour  would 
elapse  before  he  was  taken  in  by  an  open,  candid  face 
and  an  innocent,  sincere  manner. 

During  the  first  few  days  he  had  come  to  hate  it  all 
intensely,  and  he  would  have  given  anything  to  be  able 
to  leave  the  school  at  once.  He  would  have  done  so 
without  waiting  for  permission  from  his  father  but  for 
the  pride  which  kept  him  from  acknowledging  defeat. 
He  determined  to  stick  it  out  in  spite  of  everything, 
and  show  these  dubs  that  he  could  beat  them  at  their 
own  game  as  soon  as  he  learned  the  rules. 

Latterly,  another  motive  had  come  to  bolster  up  the 
first  one.  In  spite  of  the  joshing  and  teasing  and  con- 
stant verbal  clashes,  he  was  conscious  of  a  growing 
liking  for  the  school.  Though  he  did  not  acknowledge 
it  in  so  many  words,  he  was  becoming  fond  of  the  place 
jand  interested  in  the  life  there. 

With  the  constant  clashing  of  wits,  the  necessity  for 
being  always  on  the  alert,  the  games,  the  sports,  the 
many  varied  interests,  he  realized  that  Frank  Merri- 
well  was  right  when  he  said,  that  first  day,  that  ex- 
istence at  Farnham  Hall  never  would  be  tame. 

Billy  had  come  to  like  many  of  the  fellows,  too,  even 
though  they  did  josh  him  all  they  could.  He  was  sen- 
sible enough  to  realize  that  he  had,  in  a  measure, 
brought  it  on  himself.  He  could  not  very  well  stand 
out  against  everybody,  and  so  he  took  his  medicine  in 
a  good-natured  manner,  hitting  back  whenever  he 
could  and  coming  to  enjoy  the  sport  to  a  greater  Q! 
less  extent. 

His  animosity  seemed  to  have  centered  entirely  on 
Herman  Coors,  whom  he  considered  responsible  for 


The  Progress  of  Billy.  261 

that  first  humiliation.  He  hated  the  brown-haired  chap 
intensely,  and  much  of  his  spare  time  was  spent  in 
thinking  out  ways  of  getting  even. 

It  proved  to  be  a  more  difficult  proposition  than  it 
had  seemed  at  first.  There  had  been  no  opportunity 
for  starting  a  fight,  for,  though  Coors  was  not  back- 
ward about  joshing  him,  Billy  felt  that  he  would  be 
only  making  a  fool  of  himself  if  he  lost  his  temper 
and  treated  the  matter  seriously.  Moreover,  having 
watched  his  enemy  boxing  in  the  gym,  he  began  to 
have  grave  doubts  as  to  his  coming  out  ahead  in  an 
encounter. 

As  yet  he  had  not  hit  upon  another  way.  If  he  could 
only  get  Coors  out  on  the  ranch,  it  would  be  a  simple 
matter  to  triumph  over  him  in  shooting,  roping,  or 
any  other  cow-puncher  accomplishment.  Unfortu- 
nately that  was  impossible,  and  Billy  was  decidedly 
deficient  in  the  games  and  pastimes  in  vogue  at  the 
school. 

Tennis  he  watched  in  scornful  bewilderment.  It 
seemed  kiddish  beyond  words  to  spend  so  much  effort 
in  sending  a  silly  little  ball  into  certain  marked-off 
spaces  on  either  side  of  a  net.  He  could  not  under- 
stand how  fellows  could  play  it  by  the  hour  with  every 
evidence  of  interest,  while  others  watched  the  foolish 
batting  back  and  forth  with  attention  which  verged 
sometimes  on  actual  excitement. 

He  cared  little  more  for  land  hockey,  a  game  often 
indulged  in  on  the  gridiron  after  the  football  practice 
was  at  an  end,  and  in  which  half  the  school  sometimes 
took  part.  It  was  a  shade  better  than  tennis,  perhaps, 
but  that  was  all. 


960  The  Progress  of  Billy. 

Football,  however,  was  a  different  proposition.  In 
the  beginning  he  had  watched  it,  languidly  uninter- 
ested. The  preliminary  practice  bored  him.  He  could 
not  see  anything  entertaining  in  that  constant  reitera- 
tion of  the  same  move.  It  seemed  so  absurd  for  a 
dozen  fellows  to  just  pass  the  ball  from  one  to  the 
other  for  half  hours  at  a  time,  or  for  others,  gathered 
in  little  groups  of  four  or  six,  to  wear  themselves  out 
making  short  plunges  forward,  only  to  stop,  return, 
land  do  it  all  over  again. 

He  did  not,  in  short,  understand  the  game  at  all,  nor 
feee  that  all  this  work  was  necessary  before  the  team 
jcould  be  even  selected,  much  less  play  a  real  game. 

Only  the  day  before,  however,  two  teams  had  been 
picked  out  and  a  short  game  played,  at  the  sight  of 
which  Billy  sat  up  and  began  to  take  notice.  He 
watched  with  intense  interest  the  progress  of  the  ball 
down  the  field.  His  eyes  sparkled  as  he  beheld  the 
success  of  certain  strategies.  His  face  flushed,  and 
the  blood  tingled  in  his  finger  tips  at  the  clash  of  man 
meeting  man,  the  thud  of  strenuous  contact,  the  shrill 
voice  of  the  quarter  back  calling  out  signals  the  mean- 
ing of  which  he  could  not  grasp. 

This  was  a  man's  game,  he  decided,  after  it  was  all 
over  and  the  tired  fellows  trooping  back  to  the  house 
for  a  shower  and  rubdown.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing 
he  would  like  to  play  himself ;  and  that  evening,  during 
the  hourly  study  period  after  supper,  he  lost  himself 
in  dreams  of  what  he  might  accomplish  if  he  could 
only  learn  football  and  be  given  a  chance  on  the  field. 

He  was  out  early  the  next  afternoon,  but  made  no 
attempt  to  approach  the  fellow  who  was  acting  as  cap- 


The  Progress  o'f  Billy.  263 

tain,  with  a  request  that  he  be  allowed  a  trial.  He  was 
too  wary  for  that  Experience  lately  had  taught  him 
not  to  plunge  headlong  into  anything  before  he  had 
thought  it  out  to  the  last  detail. 

He  was  absolutely  inexperienced  in  the  game,  and 
the  chances  were  that  he  would  be  turned  down  and 
laughed  to  scorn,  especially  since  Ogden  Marshall,  act- 
ing captain,  had  been  one  of  the  foremost  in  pestering 
him. 

He  did  not  understand  that  the  right  sort  of  fellow 
at  the  head  of  any  branch  of  athletics  never  allows 
personal  feeling  to  interfere  with  his  judgment.  He 
must  be  always  on  the  alert  for  good  material,  and 
should  never  turn  down  any  boy,  even  though  he  may 
know  nothing  of  the  game,  who  shows  strength  and 
grit  and  a  desire  to  make  good. 

So  Billy  took  his  place  under  a  tree,  determined  to 
watch  through  another  afternoon's  practice  before  he 
made  up  his  mind.  To-day  the  work  started  off  with  a 
brisk  half  hour  of  real  playing,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Cromwell  suddenly  gave  an  exclamation  of  delight. 

Herman  Coors  played  on  one  of  the  teams,  and  Bill 
had  just  seen  him  tackled  with  a  precision  and  force 
which  brought  him  crashing  to  the  ground  in  no  gentle 
manner. 

The  sight  settled  his  mind  once  and  for  all.  What 
one  fellow  could  do,  he  himself  could  likewise  accom- 
plish. Here,  at  last,  was  the  thing  he  had  been  wish- 
ing for.  If  he  could  only  get  into  the  game,  he  would 
have  countless  chances  for  going  for  his  enemy  in  a 
perfectly  legitimate  manner. 

When  he  learned  how,  he  could  tackle  Coors,  just 


The  Progress  of  Billy. 

as  that  boy  had  tackled  him  a  moment  before,  only  a 
good  bit  harder.  He  could  lay  for  him  at  every  oppor- 
tunity, break  up  his  plays,  and  do  his  best  to  make  his 
life  miserable. 

The  next  moment  he  was  on  his  feet  making  rapidly 
for  the  center  of  the  field. 


CHAPTER  XU 

ON     THE    SCRUB, 

Waiting  until  the  turmoil  of  the  next  down  had  sub- 
sided, the  chap  from  Arizona  walked  up  to  Marshall 
and  touched  him  on  the  arm.  The  captain  turned 
abruptly  on  him,  breathing  hard  and  wiping  the  perspi- 
ration from  his  face. 

"Well  ?"  he  snapped,  in  no  gentle  tones. 

"I  want  to  know  if  you'll  give  me  a  chance  to  go 
in,"  Cromwell  said  sturdily. 

Marshall  glared  at  him  fiercely. 

"Are  you  nutty  ?"  he  demanded.  "Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  hold  up  the  game  to  listen  to  such  rot?  Get 
off  the  field  and  do  it  quick!" 

Billy's  face  flamed,  and  he  clenched  both  fists.  Then 
he  realized  in  time  that  he  had  no  right  to  be  angry 
at  the  fellow's  tone.  He  should  have  known  Tetter 
than  to  butt  in  during  the  progress  of  the  game.  He 
would  never  have  done  it  had  he  not  been  spurred  on 
by  the  idea  of  getting  even  with  Coors. 

Without  a  word,  he  turned  and  walked  toward  the 
side  lines,  and  thus  missed  seeing  Coors  catch  Marshall 
by  the  sleeve  and  whisper  a  few  words  into  his  ear. 
The  next  instant,  however,  he  heard  the  captain's 
voice  bellowing  after  him: 

"Hey,  you,  Broncho!  I'll  talk  to  you  after  the 
game's  over." 

Billy  stopped,  whirled  around,  and  then,  with  a  sigh 


266  On  the  Scrub. 

of  relief,  he  resumed  his  progress  toward  the  side  line, 
thankful  for  whatever  had  induced  Marshall  to  change 
his  mind. 

For  the  next  half  hour  he  waited  patiently,  specu- 
lating the  while  as  to  what  his  chances  would  be.  When 
the  game  finally  came  to  an  end  and  the  fellows  scat- 
tered over  the  field  for  individual  practice,  he  made 
no  attempt  to  move  until  Marshall  waved  an  arm  and 
shouted  again  the  name  for  which  he  himself  was  re- 
sponsible, but  which  he  disliked  so  much,  because  it 
reminded  him  constantly  of  that  humiliating  morning. 

As  he  approached  on  the  run,  he  was  conscious  of 
Marshall's  speculative  scrutiny,  and  even  after  he  came 
to  a  stop  before  the  captain,  the  latter  continued  to 
look  him  over  in  silence. 

"You  want  to  try  for  the  team,  do  you?"  he  asked 
at  length. 

"Yes." 

"Humph!"  commented  Marshall.  "Why  didn't  you 
tome  out  with  the  others  ?" 

"I— I  didn't  think  about  it  then,"  Billy  explained 
slowly, 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  I've— never  played  before."  , 

The  captain's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"Oh!    Never  played,  eh?" 

"No." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence. 

"What  do  you  weigh?"  was  the  next  query,  in  a 
rather  impatient  tone. 

"About  one  hundred  and  fifty-five." 

"Stripped?" 


On  the  Scrub.  267 

Billy  nodded,  and  Marshall  looked  more  interested. 

"Not  so  bad/'  he  commented.  "You're  pretty  good 
on  your  pins,  aren't  you?" 

"I  don't  get  winded  easily." 

The  captain  stepped  forward  and  felt  Billy's  muscle. 

"Hard  as  nails,"  he  murmured.  "Can  you  stand 
a  lot  of  knocking  about?" 

"Sure." 

"Just  as  well,  because  that's  about  all  you'll  get," 
Marshall  grinned.  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  right  now 
that  there  isn't  much  chance  of  your  making  the  regu- 
lar team.  I've  got  enough  fellows  who  have  played 
the  game  and  know  it  from  A  to  Z.  I'm  willing  to  try 
you  out  on  the  scrub,  though,  and,  of  course,  there's 
always  a  bare  chance  that  a  chap  will  make  good  and 
get  a  boost.  That  suit  you  ?" 

"I'll  be  playing  against  the  regular  team,  then,  won't 
I?"  Cromwell  asked. 

"Part  of  the  time — yes." 

"Then  I'll  do  it,"  Billy  returned  decidedly.  "When 
<do  you  want  me  to  come  out?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon  at  three  sharp.  You  haven't 
any  suit,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  but  I  can  buy  one,  can't  I?" 

"Yes.  Mr.  Merriwell  keeps  a  supply  of  athletic  stuff 
on  hand.  Go  to  him  after  practice  and  he'll  fit  you 
out.  Don't  forget — three  to-morrow." 

"I  won't." 

Billy  left  the  field  rather  pleased  with  himself.  He 
would  almost  rather  be  on  the  scrub  than  the  regular 
team,  for  he  would  be  constantly  up  against  Herman 
Coors,  and  it  would  be  strange  if  he  didn't  manage 


268  On  the  Scrub. 

to  get  in  a  few  knocks  now  and  then  at  the  fellow  he 
hated. 

Having  fitted  himself  out,  he  dressed  early,  with 
some  assistance  from  one  of  the  boys,  and  appeared  on 
the  field  in  the  full  glory  of  his  unaccustomed  raiment, 
•which  contrasted  vividly  with  the  torn,  stained,  bat- 
tle-scared attire  of  most  of  his  companions. 

As  these  appeared,  they  greeted  him  with  various 
jests  and -witticisms. 

"Look  at  Broncho,  fellows." 

"Ain't  he  the  spotless  young  lily." 

"He  won't  be  that  long.  Wait  till  we  get  after 
him." 

"Oh,  you  Billy,  the  Kid!" 

"Look  out  for  yourself,  Hermie.  I've  got  a  hunch 
he's  after  your  place." 

Coors  smiled  his  wide  smile  and  announced  that  any- 
body was  welcome  to  his  job  that  could  get  it;  and  a 
moment  later  the  practice  commenced. 

Billy  took  no  part  in  the  line-up  that  day,  nor  the 
next.  He  was  turned  over  to  Jim  Phillips,  one  of  the 
best  players  on  the  team,  to  receive  instructions  in  the 
rudiments  of  the  game,  and  in  a  very  short  time  he 
quite  understood  the  purpose  of  that  tiresome  pre- 
liminary work  which  he  had  looked  upon  with  such 
scorn. 

Phillips,  a  little  provoked  at  having  been  singled 
out  to  instruct  this  greenhorn,  did  not  spare  him.  In 
showing  him  the  proper  way  to  tackle,  he  brought 
Billy  to  the  ground  every  time  with  almost  unneces- 
sary violence,  and  when  Cromwell  himself  tried  to  get 
that  apparently  simple,  but  really  difficult,  knack,  he 


On  the  Scrub.  269 

found  himself  dragged  about  and  treated  like  a  bag  of 
sawdust  instead  of  flesh  and  bone. 

Not  only  that,  but  whenever  he  failed — as  he  did 
every  time  for  a  seeming  eternity — his  instructor  be- 
rated him  with  sharp,  stinging  sarcasm  which  hurt 
almost  more  than  the  bruises  and  scratches  which  were 
rapidly  accumulating  on  his  person. 

But  Billy  was  game  and  never  complained  once,  nor 
expressed  a  desire  to  stop.  There  was  a  bulldog  tenac- 
ity in  his  make-up,  which  made  him  stick  at  a  thing 
he  had  set  out  to  accomplish  as  long  as  there  was  a 
breath  left  in  his  body.  Often  he  felt  despairingly 
that  he  would  never  learn.  It  seemed  as  if  each  effort 
was  worse  than  the  last.  But  still  he  stuck  at  it  until 
his  head  was  reeling  and  he  could  scarcely  keep  his 
feet. 

His  dogged  obstinacy  at  length  impressed  Phillips 
and  made  him  realize  that  he  had  been  too  hard  on 
the  youngster. 

"There,"  he  said  gruffly,  as  they  both  arose  slowly 
from  the  ground  after  a  fairly  good  tackle,  "that'll  do 
for  a  bit.  We'll  try  a  little  passing." 

Billy  passed  one  sleeve  across  his  dripping  face,  his 
body  swaying  slightly. 

"I  don't  want  to  stop,"  he  gritted.  "I  want  to  keep 
on  till  I've  got  the  darned  thing." 

Phillips  looked  at  him  with  a  new  interest. 

"You  don't  expect  to  learn  football  in  one  day,  do 
you?"  he  asked,  half  jokingly. 

Billy  hesitated,  struck  by  this  aspect  of  the  case. 

"N-o,"  he  returned  slowly.  "But  I'd  like  to  keep 
on  till  I  do  a  little  better  than  I  did  at  first" 


270  On  the  Scrub. 

"And  be  laid  up  for  a  couple  of  days,"  supplemented 
Phillips  grimly.  "No,  we'll  try  passing  for  a  bit.  If 
it's  any  satisfaction  to  you,  why,  you  are  better  at 
tackling  than  when  you  started.  You've  got  the  gen- 
eral idea,  and  all  you  want  is  a  lot  of  practice." 

Somewhat  comforted,  Billy  took  his  place  at  a  lit- 
tle distance  and  made  ready  to  catch  the  elusive  pig- 
skin. At  this  branch  of  the  art  he  surprised  his  in- 
structor by  showing  unusual  ability.  At  first  he  was 
naturally  awkward,  but  he  caught  on  at  once,  and  be- 
fore they  finished  the  afternoon's  work,  he  had  de- 
veloped amazingly,  both  in  catching  the  ball  cleanly 
and  throwing  it  with  surprising  accuracy. 

"Seems  to  do  it  instinctively,"  Phillips  remarked 
later  to  Marshall  "He's  better  at  it  now  than  some  ofi 
the  fellows  will  ever  be." 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  captain  reflectively.  "He's 
speedy,  too.  I  wonder  how  he'll  size  up  as  end." 

Phillips  shook  his  head  dubiously,  though  he  ad- 
mitted that  the  chap  might  do  at  a  pinch  on  the  scrub, 
and  the  matter  was  dropped  for  a  day  or  two,  during 
which  Cromwell  continued  zealously  at  his  work. 

He  improved  in  his  tackling,  and  mastered  the  knack 
of  throwing  himself  on  the  ball,  until  he  could  pass 
muster  at  them  both.  The  fact  remained,  however, 
that  his  strong  points  were  an  exceptional  accuracy  in 
passing  and  receiving  the  ball,  and  speed.  He  could 
get  away  at  the  beginning  of  a  play  with  the  quickness 
of  a  cat,  and,  once  started  for  the  goal  with  a  clear 
field  before  him,  it  took  a  fellow  of  much  more  than 
the  usual  ability  as  a  runner  to  come  anywhere  near 
him. 


On  the  Scrub.  271 

His  knowledge  of  the  finer  points  of  the  game,  how- 
ever, was  hazy,  to  say  the  least ;  and  when,  a  few  days 
later,  one  of  the  boys  playing  end  on  the  scrub  strained 
an  ankle,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  amused  surprise 
among  the  rest  when  Marshall  brusquely  ordered 
Cromwell  to  take  the  place. 

Billy  was  overjoyed.  At  last  the  moment  had  come 
for  which  he  had  been  longing.  It  was  rather  an- 
noying, to  be  sure,  to  find  that  Coors,  playing  at  left 
half,  was  nowhere  near  him  In  the  opposite  line,  but 
he  consoled  himself  with  the  thought  that  his  chance 
.would  come  sooner  or  later. 

Meanwhile,  he  would  show  these  dubs — the  reason 
for  whose  smiles  had  been  perfectly  apparent  to  him — 
that  he  was  able  to  turn  a  trick  himself  now  and  then. 
If  he  only  got  a  chance,  he'd  show  them  that  he  could 
do  a  little  something  at  the  game,  if  he  was  a  green- 
horn. 

Unfortunately  the  opportunity  did  not  materialize. 
Evidently  Jack  Ranleigh,  the  scrub  quarter,  did  not 
share  Billy's  belief  in  his  ability;  for  he  consistently 
neglected  to  give  his  new  left  end  a  chance  to  do  more 
than  the  ordinary  routine  of  interference  and  assist- 
ance. 

Chafing  under  this  restraint,  when  his  whole  being 
was  eager  for  the  performance  of  some  spectacular 
feat,  Billy  disconsolately  watched  the  sun  sinking  lower 
and  lower  as  the  end  of  the  day  approached.  It  was 
mean  in  Ranleigh  not  to  give  him  one  chance  to  show 
what  he  could  do.  "Scrag"  Horton  probably  would 
be  out  again  to-morrow  and  shove  him  out  of  the  cov- 


272  On  the  Scrub. 

eted  place,  to  await  the  disabling  of  some  other  boy 
before  he  could  get  back  again. 

"If  I  could  only  have  a  show,"  he  thought  rebel- 
liously  to  himself,  "I'd  show  'em  a  thing  or  two." 

Then  the  signal  came  and  he  saw  the  much-desired 
pigskin  coming  his  way. 

For  an  instant  he  thought  he  must  have  misunder- 
stood the  signal,  and  that  the  ball  was  meant  for  him. 
A  second  later  he  saw  it  plump  into  the  waiting  arms 
of  the  tackle  next  to  him,  who  plunged  with  it  into 
the  line. 

The  momentary  hesitation  kept  Billy  somewhat  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  melee  of  bodies  which  piled  up  an 
instant  later,  but  he  tripped  over  some  one's  feet  and 
crashed  down  with  a  force  which  made  him  a  little 
dizzy. 

As  he  lay  there,  trying  weakly  to  roll  out  and  get 
on  his  feet,  he  saw  something  which  sent  every  other 
idea  from  his  mind  and  cleared  his  brain  like  light- 
ning. 

Not  a  dozen  feet  away,  just  coming  to  rest  after  the 
impetus  which  had  sent  it  out  of  that  vortex  of  arms 
and  legs,  was  the  ball ! 

With  a  squirm  and  a  wriggle,  Billy  released  himself 
and  was  on  his  feet.  Another  instant  and  he  had 
scooped  up  the  pigskin  and  was  streaking  toward  the 
distant  goal. 

His  chance  had  come  at  last,  and  he  had  seized  it  in- 
stantly. As  he  flew  along,  he  heard  the  thud  of  pur- 
suing feet  and  risked  a  glance  backward.  It  was  Her- 
man Coors,  the  fellow  he  hated.  Gritting  his  teeth,  he 


On  the  Scrub.  273 

redoubled  his  efforts,  resolved  to  outdistance  his  pur- 
suer or  perish  in  the  attempt 

His  ears  were  deaf  to  the  shouts  and  clamor  back 
of  him.  He  thought  only  of  the  goal  in  front  and  of 
the  necessity  for  beating  his  enemy.  The  white  lines 
slipped  under  his  feet  one  by  one,  and  the  goal  posts 
loomed  nearer  and  nearer. 

From  behind  the  thud  of  feet  continued,  but  did  not 
seem  to  gain.  Panting  from  the  effort,  weary,  but 
triumphant,  Billy  flung  himself  forward  the  last  few 
feet  and  dropped  joyfully  on  the  ball. 

As  he  did  so  a  concerted  roar  of  laughter  rose 
from  the  crowd  behind,  and  brought  Billy  to  his 
feet  like  a  shot.  He  stared  at  Coors,  standing  a  little 
way  off,  too  overcome  to  speak.  He  glanced  about 
him,  and  then,  of  a  sudden,  realized  the  horrible 
truth. 

Mixed  up  in  some  manner  by  the  suddenness  of  it, 
and  probably,  also,  by  the  crack  on  his  head,  he  had 
mistaken  the  goals  and  scored  a  safety  for  the  regular 
team. 


"CHAPTER  XLI. 

MISTAKEN     JUDGMENT.- 

What  followed  had  better  rest  in  oblivion.  Shamed, 
humiliated,  his  slight  cockiness  vanishing  like  a  pricked 
balloon,  Billy  stood  before  the  captain  with  bowed 
head  and  listened  in  meek  silence  to  his  roaring  repri- 
mand. 

He  learned  that  a  football  player  must  keep  his  head, 
first,  last,  and  always.  That  a  man  who  amounted  to 
anything  on  the  gridiron  could  be  knocked  senseless 
and  tell,  on  the  moment  of  recovering  consciousness, 
not  only  where  his  own  goal  lay,  but  the  exact  status  of 
the  game  at  the  time  he  went  under.  Such  a  wild, 
kiddish,  utterly  impossible  trick  of  a  fellow  running 
over  his  own  goal  line  had  never  been  even  imagined  at 
Farnham  Hall. 

All  this,  and  a  great  deal  more,  Billy  heard  in  si- 
lence and  with  a  sinking  heart.  He  felt  that  after 
such  a  dumb  exhibition,  his  chances  for  ever  playing 
on  that  field  again  were  utterly  ruined;  and  a  little 
later,  as  he  limped  slowly  back  to  the  school,  he  could 
almost  have  shed  tears  at  what  he  had  done. 

Nothing  was  said  to  him  about  coming  out  for  prac- 
tice next  day,  but  at  three  o'clock  he  was  on  hand, 
standing  a  little  to  one  side  and  wistfully  watching  a 
group  consisting  of  most  of  the  members  of  the  regu- 
lar team,  who  seemed  to  be  discussing  himself,  if  he 
could  judge  by  the  occasional  glances  cast  in  his  direc- 
tion. 


Mistaken  Judgment.  275 

"Deciding  whether  I'll  have  another  chance,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said  to  himself,  as  he  shifted  uneasily  from 
one  foot  to  the  other.  "Gee!  I  sure  hope  they  give  it 
to  me.  Horton's  gone  to  the  infirmary  and  may  not 
be  out  for  a  week.  I'll  never  have  another  chance  like 
this — never !" 

Anxiously  he  watched  the  faces,  trying  to  get  some 
idea  of  how  things  were  going.  Herman  Coors  seemed 
to  be  doing  most  of  the  talking,  and,  as  he  realized  this, 
Billy's  heart  sank. 

"Might  as  well  give  up  hoping,"  he  thought  bit- 
terly. "He'll  do  his  best  to  keep  me  out." 

He  would  have  been  more  than  amazed  had  he 
been  near  enough  to  hear  the  discussion. 

His  surmise  that  the  fellows  were  discussing  the 
advisability  of  giving  him  another  trial  was  quite  cor- 
rect. When  the  news  came  that  Horton's  ankle  was  in 
a  more  serious  condition  than  had  been  supposed,  Mar- 
shall frowned  angrily  and  bit  his  lips. 

"Thunder!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  puts  us  in  bad. 
I  can't  think  of  any  one  to  fill  his  place." 

Coors,  who  was  standing  near  by,  ceased  passing 
a  ball  to  Phillips  and  walked  over. 

"Why  don't  you  let  Broncho  stay?"  he  inquired. 

"What!  After  yesterday?"  demanded  the  captain 
incredulously.  "Why,  he'll  never  learn  football  in  a 
thousand  years." 

A  chorus  of  agreement,  mingled  a  bit  with  laughter 
at  the  recollection  of  yesterday's  doings,  arose  from 
the  players  within  earshot. 

Coors  smiled  a  little. 


276  Mistaken  Judgment. 

"Tha<?  was  pretty  bad,"  he  admitted.  "All  the  same, 
I  wouldn't  condemn  the  kid  for  that  one  slip-up." 

"It's  a  slip-up  which  shows  only  too  well  how  utterly 
irresponsible  he  is,"  Marshall  retorted  forcibly.  "A 
fellow  that'll  do  such  a  fool  thing  as  that  is  apt  to  do 
anything." 

"Gee — yes!"  exclaimed  Shasta.  "What  if  he  pulled 
off  a  stunt  like  that  in  a  game  ?" 

"Whew!"  whistled  Phillips.  "He  might  pork  the 
whole  thing." 

"Yes,"  echoed  another;  "he  could  lose  the  game  easy 
as  rolling  off  a  log." 

Coors  was  still  smiling  that  wide,  pleasant  smile  of 
his. 

"I  didn't  know  we  were  discussing  him  as  a  candi- 
date for  the  regular  team,"  he  commented  quietly. 

"Same  principle,"  returned  Marshall  impatiently. 
"There's  no  telling  which  one  of  the  scrub  may  be 
called  on  to  substitute,  and  it's  a  waste  of  time  training 
a  chap  who  can't  possibly  make  good." 

"I  should  say  he'd  done  pretty  well  considering  the 
short  time  he's  had  to  learn,"  Coors  remarked. 

"When  has  he?"  demanded  the  captain.  "He  cer- 
tainly didn't  show  up  very  brilliantly  yesterday,  quite 
apart  from  that  crazy  exhibition  at  the  end." 

"So  far  as  I  could  see,  he  had  very  little  chance  to 
do  anything,"  Coors  replied,  "I  was  thinking  more  of 
the  showing  he  made  while  Phillips  was  training  him. 
Besides,  you'll  all  admit  that  he's  mighty  swift  on  his 
pins." 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  that,  all  right,"  Marshall  admitted. 
"But  mere  speed  don't  make  a  player." 


Mistaken  Judgment.  277 

"It's  a  blamed  good  quality,  though,"  Coors  smiled. 
"Besides,  I  understand  he's  clever  at  passing  and  re- 
ceiving the  ball.  Isn't  that  so,  Jim  ?" 

He  turned  questioningly  to  Phillips,  who  nodded 
slowly. 

"Yes,  he's  all  right  there,"  he  admitted. 

"Adding  that  to  his  quickness,"  Coors  resumed, 
glancing  back  at  Marshall,  "he  ought  to  do  mighty 
well  on  the  forward  pass,  and  I  really  think  he's  got  the 
making  of  a  good  player  in  him.  He's  hard  as  nails 
and  full  of  grit,  and  I  don't  believe  you'd  ever  see  him 
repeat  yesterday's  performance,  or  anything  like  it 
again." 

Marshall  frowned  a  bit,  and  then  his  face  suddenly 
cleared. 

"Say,  Hermie,"  he  bantered,  "what  the  mischief  are 
you  blowing  his  horn  so  for?  He  hates  you  like 
poison." 

Coors  hesitated,  a  slight  flush  tingeing  his  brown 
face. 

"That  may  be,"  he  retorted,  "but  I  don't  like  to  see 
a  chap  lose  his  chance  to  make  good  whether  he — I 
like  him  or  not.  Besides,  if  he  turns  out  as  I  think 
he  will,  we  may  be  mighty  glad  to  have  him  to  fall 
back  on  some  day." 

Marshall  chuckled. 

"Well,  let  it  go  at  that,"  he  said.  "We've  wasted 
time  enough  on  it  now.  I'll  give  him  another  chance 
on  your  account,  Herm;  but  if  he  falls  down  again  it'll 
be  the  end." 

"Sure !"  the  brown-eyed  chap  agreed.    "That's  your 


278  Mistaken  Judgment. 

business.  Only  you  needn't  tell  that  to  him.  I  don't 
want  him  to  think  he  owes  anything  to  me." 

"Trust  me,"  laughed  Marshall. 

Turning,  he  waved  an  imperative  summons  to  the 
anxious  boy,  and  bellowed: 

"Stir  your  stumps,  Broncho!  What  in  time  are  you 
waiting  there  for?" 

With  a  smothered  exclamation  of  joy  and  relief, 
Billy  raced  out  into  the  field. 

"He's  giving  me  another  chance,"  he  gasped  de- 
lightedly. "Gee,  what  luck!  If  I  don't  make  good 
this  time,  I'll  deserve  to  be  thrown  out." 

Nearing  the  group,  his  eyes  happened  to  catch  Coors' 
glance,  and  a  glow  of  triumph  came  over  him. 

"Couldn't  work  it  to  keep  me  out,  could  you?"  he 
exulted  inwardly.  "It's  your  last  chance,  old  sport,  for 
I'll  sure  never  give  you  another  one." 

Which  shows  how  little  we  can  sometimes  judge  the 
motives  and  desires  of  others,  and  how  easy  it  is  to 
color  them  with  reflections  from  our  own  beliefs. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE   PRINCIPLE   OF   FOOTBALL. 

Billy's  progress  as  a  member  of  the  scrub  presently 
was  cut  short  by  the  unexpected  return  of  Horton  from 
the  infirmary,  and  the  Arizona  boy  was  obliged  to 
drop  out  of  the  position  in  which  he  had  planned  to 
do  such  great  things,  without  having  had  a  single 
chance  of  getting  up  against  Herman  Coors. 

At  first  he  was  so  disappointed  and  discouraged  that 
he  let  things  slide  and  grew  careless.  He  was  roused 
from  this  attitude  of  indifference  by  Jim  Phillips. 

"Look  here,  Broncho,"  the  latter  said  severely  one 
afternoon,  "you've  got  to  take  a  brace  and  do  it  quick, 
or  you  may  as  well  beat  it  off  the  field  for  good." 

Billy  flushed  slightly  at  the  other's  tone. 

"What's  the  use?"  he  grumbled.  "I  might  keep  on 
with  these  practice  stunts  all  season  and  never  get 
another  chance  to  do  a  thing." 

Phillips  snorted  disgustedly. 

"You  fool!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought  you  had 
more  sense.  Don't  you  see  that  the  only  way  you're 
likely  to  get  a  chance  is  by  working  like  the  mischief 
every  minute  of  the  time?  Can't  you  understand  that 
the  more  practice  you  get  the  more  likely  Marshall  will 
be  to  put  you  on  the  scrub  in  place  of  some  one  who 
isn't  as  good  as  you  are?  You  make  me  good  and 
tired  talking  such  rot  as  that." 

Billy's  face  was  a  deep  crimson  by  this  time,  and 


280  The  Principle  of  Football. 

there  was  an  expression  of  almost  incredulous  inter- 
est in  the  gray  eyes  which  were  fixed  intently  on  his 
companion. 

"You  don't  mean  that  I've  got  a  chance  of  getting 
on  the  scrub  unless  somebody's  hurt  or  sick,  do  you  ?" 
he  gasped. 

Phillips  sighed  wearily. 

"You  give  me  a  pain,"  he  retorted.  "Did  you  think 
that  Strawbridge,  and  Minturn,  and  I  have  been  coach- 
ing you  for  the  past  week  just  because  we  wanted  the 
pleasure  of  your  company?" 

Billy  grinned  sheepishly. 

"My  head  isn't  that  swelled,"  he  expostulated.  "But 
I " 

"Then  for  Heaven's  sake,  wake  up!"  admonished 
Phillips  severely.  "Stir  your  stumps  and  do  some- 
thing. You've  got  the  making  of  a  good  player  in 
you,  but  you'll  never  get  there  if  you  don't  cut  out  all 
this  tommyrot  about  it  not  being  worth  while  exert- 
ing yourself  just  because  you're  not  on  the  scrub." 

He  said  a  good  deal  more  to  the  same  purpose  and 
in  language  which  made  Cromwell  wince  a  bit.  There 
was  no  trouble  after  that  from  any  lack  of  enthusiasm 
in  his  work,  however.  He  went  at  it  in  a  whole-souled 
manner,  which  produced  such  good  results  that  he  was 
put  on  the  scrub  less  than  a  week  later  in  a  permanent 
position,  from  which  there  was  no  danger  of  being 
ousted  so  long  as  he  kept  up  his  present  state  of  ex- 
cellence. 

This  time  he  was  at  right  end,  and  much  nearer  Her- 
man Coors  than  he  had  been  before.  Inwardly  he 
exulted  at  this  opportunity  to  get  in  a  blow  at  his 


The  Principle  of  Football.  281 

enemy,  and  he  at  once  proceeded  to  make  ready  for 
the  inevitable  clash. 

It  did  not  come  until  well  toward  the  end  of  the 
afternoon,  for  Marshall  was  trying  out  some  plays 
in  which  the  left  half  di-d  not  carry  the  ball.  Just  be- 
fore dusk,  however,  the  opportunity  came — that  is, 
Billy  thought  it  had  come.  The  ball  was  passed  to 
Coors,  who  started  with  it  for  a  plunge  through  the 
line. 

As  Billy  saw  the  fellow  he  hated  coming  straight 
toward  him,  his  heart  leaped  exultingly,  and  with  a 
lunge  he  dove  forward  to  meet  him.  So  occupied 
was  he  in  the  necessity  for  bringing  Coors  to  earth 
that  he  quite  missed  the  fact  that  the  play  was  a  double 
pass  and  that  the  half  back  had  transferred  the  ball  to 
full  back. 

Breaking  through  the  line,  he  made  a  fine  tackle  and 
slammed  Coors  to  the  ground  with  gratifying  violence. 
Not  content  with  that,  he  jolted  down  on  the  body  of 
the  under  man  with  a  force  which  nearly  knocked 
Coors  breathless,  and,  though  the  fellow  with  the  ball 
had  already  been  downed,  he  continued  to  sit  trium- 
phantly astride  his  enemy  with  no  room  for  any 
thought  in  his  brain  save  the  delight  of  having  at  last 
come  out  ahead; 

So  happy  was  he  at  what  he  had  done  that  he  did 
not  hear  Marshall  yelling  at  him  impatiently  to  stop 
his  nonsense  and  line  up  again.  A  moment  later,  how- 
ever, he  was  gripped  by  the  collar  and  jerked  to  his 
feet  with  no  gentle  hand,  and  spun  around  to  face  the 
frowning,  angry  captain. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  demanded  Marshall. 


282  The  Principle  of  Football. 

Billy's  jaw  dropped  at  the  other's  scathing  tone. 

"Why,  I — I — tackled  him,"  he  stammered. 

"What  for?" 

"He— he  had  the— ball." 

"Oh,  did  he?"  sneered  Marshall.     "I  don't  see  it." 

Cromwell  stared  helplessly  around.  Most  of  the 
team  were  standing  at  a  little  distance  off,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  he  saw  the  ball  plainly,  lying  on  the  ground 
where  Winslow  had  been  downed.  The  color  flamed 
into  his  face,  and  he  dropped  his  gaze. 

"I  thought "  he  stammered,  and  then  was  silent. 

"You  thought,  did  you?"  thundered  Marshall. 
"That's  the  whole  trouble  with  you,  you  don't  think. 
You  don't  use  your  head.  It's  almost  as  crazy  an  ex- 
hibition as  you  gave  us  last  week  running  over  your 
own  goal  line.  If  you  hadn't  been  so  crazy  to  sail  into 
Coors  you'd  have  seen  him  pass  the  ball  to  Winslow. 
There's  one  thing  you've  got  to  get  wise  to,  and  do  it 
quick,  or  you  won't  last  a  minute  on  the  scrub.  You're 
here  to  play  football  and  nothing  else.  This  is  not  the 
place  for  working  off  any  private,  personal  grudges. 
When  you  come  out  on  the  field  you've  got  to  forget 
everything  but  the  game.  Nothing  else  matters.  If 
you're  going  to  waste  time  thinking  of  how  to  get  even 
with  some  man  on  your  own  team,  instead  of  keeping 
your  mind  on  the  plays,  the  sooner  I  know  it  the  bet- 
ter, so  I  can  fill  your  place  with  some  one  who  has  the 
right  idea.  Do  you  get  that?  Understand  just  what 
I  mean?" 

Head  down  and  hands  clenched  tightly  at  his  sides, 
Billy  listened  to  the  cutting,  biting  words,  his  cheeks 
flaming.  He  had  never  been  so  shamed  and  humiliated 


The  Principle  ol  Football.  283 

in  his  life.  The  incidents  of  that  first  day  were  as 
nothing  to  this.  But  he  was  sensible  enough  to  realize 
that  he  had  only  himself  to  blame.  He  deserved  every 
word  that  Marshall  had  said  to  him,  and  more. 

"Well?"  snapped  the  captain  impatiently. 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  Billy  faltered. 

""And  you're  going  to  cut  out  this  kiddish  nonsense  ?" 

"I'll  try." 

"Try!"  exclaimed  Marshall.  "You've  got  to  do 
more  than  try.  Understand,  this  is  your  last  chance. 
If  you  don't  toe  the  mark  and  play  the  game  as  it 
should  be  played,  out  you  go.  Get  that?" 

With  an  effort,  Billy  threw  back  his  head  and  looked 
the  captain  in  the  eyes. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said  more  firmly.  "I  won't  give 
you  a  chance  to  call  me  down  again." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Marshall.  "See  that  you  don't. 
Line  up,  boys.  We've  wasted  too  much  time  as  it  is.'* 

Billy  hustled  to  his  place  in  the  line,  his  face  still 
crimson,  but  he  had  resolved  that  never  again  would 
he  give  any  one  a  chance  to  pitch  into  him  like  that. 

Though  it  had  seemed  hard,  it  was  only  the  lesson 
which  every  boy  must  learn  before  he  can  succeed 
at  any  game.  The  submergence  of  self  must  be  abso- 
lute. Every  like  and  dislike,  every  personal  hope  or 
fear,  must  be  thrust  aside.  He  must  learn  to  plunge 
into  the  line  without  a  thought  of  personal  injury  or 
unpleasantness.  What  happens  to  him  is  of  slight  im- 
portance to  any  one  but  himself.  His  little  strains  and 
bruises  count  for  nothing  compared  with  the  general 
progress  of  the  game. 

On  the  other  hand,  once  he  has  conquered  that  in- 


284  The  Principle  of  Football. 

nate  fear — that  impulse  to  hesitate  before  plunging 
into  the  melee  of  stalwart,  powerful  forms — he  must 
learn  the  danger  of  recklessness.  He  must  understand 
the  necessity  of  keeping  his  head  every  minute  of  the 
time,  and  come  to  see  how  impossible  it  is  really  to 
play  the  game  unless  his  brain  is  behind  every  move 
he  makes. 

To  an  outsider,  perhaps,  football  may  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  being  a  game  of  brute  force,  but  those  who 
play  it  realize  how  little  force  alone  avails  without  the 
backing  of  a  keen  and  active  mind. 

Billy  had  had  his  first  lesson  in  this  regard,  and 
though,  at  the  moment,  he  did  not  realize  how  impor- 
tant and  far-reaching  was  the  principle  involved,  his 
feet  were  set  upon  the  right  path. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

TROUBLE  ON   THE   TEAM. 

Though  Cromwell  had  too  much  sense  to  credit 
Coors  with  the  responsibility  for  his  humiliation  before 
the  entire  football  squad,  the  incident  only  made  him 
the  more  bitter  toward  the  Colorado  chap. 

Instead  of  getting  even  and  showing  up  well  before 
the  others,  he  had  plunged  in  even  deeper,  and  one 
more  tally  was  added  to  the  score  which  he  was  de- 
termined some  day  to  settle. 

He  made  no  more  attempts  to  do  anything  during 
the  progress  of  practice.  The  lesson  had  been  taken 
to  heart,  and,  besides,  with  every  day,  his  interest  and 
enthusiasm  in  the  game  grew  by  leaps  and  bounds. 

He  was  rapidly  imbibing  some  of  that  impalpable, 
but  powerful,  quality  known  as  school  spirit.  Day  by 
day  Farnham  Hall  and  its  inmates  became  more  and 
more  dear  to  him,  until  he  realized  at  last  that  one 
of  the  worst  things  which  could  happen  would  be  the 
necessity  of  his  leaving  Bloomfield. 

He  did  not  understand  the  change  at  all.  A  few 
short  weeks  before  he  had  fought  with  all  his  might 
against  coming,  and  even  after  his  arrival  he  had  been 
desperately  anxious  to  get  away.  Now  had  come  this 
curious  and  seemingly  inexplicable  change  in  his  feel- 
ings toward  everything. 

He  did  not  realize  that  it  was  simply  the  natural, 
inevitable  liking  every  boy  has  for  his  fellows.  Never 


286  Trouble  on  the  Team. 

having  been  thrown  with  boys  of  his  own  age,  he  had 
had  no  means  of  knowing  anything  about  such  com- 
panionship. 

Even  now,  not  being  in  the  least  introspective,  he 
did  not  try  to  puzzle  out  the  why  and  wherefore,  but 
took  things  as  they  came,  enjoying  the  atmosphere  of 
good-natured  rivalry,  the  joking  give-and-take,  and 
all  the  other  varied  interests  which  were  constantly 
cropping  up  about  him. 

He  made  many  friends  and  a  few  enemies.  His 
playing  on  the  gridiron  improved  until  he  was  looked 
on  as  one  of  the  most  promising  members  of  the  scrub. 
He  kept  track  of  the  various  rival  teams  with  whom 
they  were  scheduled  to  play,  and  joined  in  the  fre- 
quent serious  discussions  of  their  chances  for  a  cham- 
pionship that  year. 

In  addition,  he  did  fairly  well  in  his  studies,  espe- 
cially considering  the  decidedly  poor  grounding  he  had 
had,  and  he  also  found  time  to  enter  into  some  of  the 
mischief  and  harmless  pranks  that  constantly  went  on 
about  the  school. 

He  was,  in  fact,  just  a  normal,  ordinary  boy,  whose 
development  along  the  usual  lines  had  been  delayed, 
and  which,  therefore,  progressed  faster  than  it  usually 
does. 

Then,  about  a  week  before  the  first  real  game,  came 
the  unexpected  elevation  to  the  first  eleven.  It  was 
truly  unexpected  to  him,  though  some  of  the  others 
had  seen  it  coming  for  several  days,  and  his  delight 
was  proportionately  great.  At  once  he  took  on  a  new 
gravity  suitable  to  his  position.  He  cut  out  the  pranks 
and  horseplay  as  taking  up  too  much  time  and  being, 


Trouble  on  the  Team.  287 

moreover,  much  too  frivolous  for  one  of  those  eleven 
men  on  whom  the  hopes  of  the  entire  school  were  cen- 
tered, and  he  devoted  his  every  effort  toward  making 
himself  even  more  proficient  in  the  game. 

To  one  thing  he  still  clung,  however.  Not  for  a  sin- 
gle instant  did  he  cease  to  regard  Herman  Coors  as 
his  bitter  enemv.  The  idea  possessed  him  to  such  a 
degree  that  he  read  into  the  brown-eyed  chap's  most 
casual  actions  and  utterances  things  which  were  never 
intended  to  be  there. 

Seeing  Coors  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  laughing, 
jesting  boys,  Billy  instantly  concluded  that  he  him- 
self was  being  discussed  and  made  fun  of.  Or,  when 
the  half  back,  growing  weary  of  the  persistent  chilly 
looks  and  ill-tempered  manners  of  the  Arizona  boy, 
proceeded  calmly  to  ignore  the  fellow  at  all  times  and 
places,  Cromwell  set  him  down  as  stuck-up  and  proud. 

Only  a  few  days  after  Billy  had  been  advanced  to 
the  first  team  there  came  an  upheaval  which  quite 
changed  football  conditions.  To  the  surprise  of  all 
but  a  very  few,  Ogden  Marshall  resigned  from  the 
captaincy.  Though  no  one  was  really  sure,  several 
fellows,  who  were  better  posted  or  more  observing  than 
the  majority,  made  a  shrewd  guess  that  the  resignation 
had  been  requested  by  Frank  Merriwell  himself. 

The  latter  rarely  interfered  in  the  management  of 
athletics,  but  Marshall  had  not  made  good  to  the  ex- 
tent he  promised  at  first  He  was  pleasant  and  geniai, 
and  rather  popular,  but,  unfortunately,  he  did  not  ap- 
ply to  himself  the  very  sensible  homily  he  had  delivered 
that  day  on  the  field  to  Cromwell. 

Instead  of  placing  the  good  of  the  team  ahead  of 


288  Trouble  on  the  Team. 

everything,  he  allowed  his  personal  likes  and  dislikes 
to  interfere  with  his  judgment,  and  he  endeavored  to 
keep  Don  Shasta,  one  of  the  best  quarter  backs  Farn- 
ham  Hall  had  ever  seen,  from  remaining  on  the  team. 

Whatever  the  reason,  he  resigned  and  Jim  Phillips 
was  elected  to  take  his  place. 

At  first  Billy  was  rather  sorry.  He  and  Marshall 
had  gotten  along  very  well  together  ever  since  the 
day  of  the  latter's  lecture,  and  Phillips,  in  the  posi- 
tion of  captain,  was  more  or  less  of  an  unknown  quan- 
tity- 

Personally,  he  turned  out  to  be  more  than  competent, 
but  he  was  handicapped  by  difficulties  which  were  not 
of  his  own  making.  Marshall,  though  leaving  office, 
still  remained  on  the  team,  and  it  was  almost  inevi- 
table that  he  should  stir  up  a  certain  degree  of  ill  feel- 
ing between  his  friends  and  the  adherents  of  the  new 
captain. 

It  never  reached  the  point  of  an  open  rupture.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  it  would  have  been  better  all  around 
had  it  done  so,  for  in  that  case  things  would  have  come 
to  a  head.  Unfortunately,  however,  it  confined  itself 
to  underground  rumblings  which  never  reached  the 
acute  stage  of  an  explosion,  but  which  were  infinitely 
harder  to  combat.  The  fellows  played  a  good  enough 
game,  but  they  played  it  by  themselves.  There  was 
no  getting  together  and  helping  one  another  as  is  so 
often  possible  in  football. 

Marshall  and  two  or  three  adherents  looked  askance 
at  Phillips  and  his  chosen  friends,  and  were  in  turn 
gazed  upon  with  a  certain  amount  of  envy  and  jealousy 
whenever  they  did  something  particularly  good. 


Trouble  on  the  Team.  289 

And  then  along  came  Billy  Cromwell,  who  had  de- 
veloped into  such  a  splendid  end,  and  made  matters 
worse  with  his  little  grudge  against  Coors.  It  would 
have  been  better  had  either  of  them  held  any  other 
position  on  the  team,  for  more  than  half  the  time  they 
were  the  ones  selected  to  execute  the  forward  pass. 

They  were  both  unusually  good  at  passing  and  re- 
ceiving the  ball,  and  for  that  reason  they  had  been 
drilled  in  this  maneuver  until  they  had  become  almost 
perfect.  But  it  was  a  more  or  less  mechanical  per- 
fection, lacking  that  subtle  something  which  is  never 
present  unless  both  fellows  are  in  perfect  sympathy 
and  accord. 

At  the  crisp,  ripping  out  of  the  signal,  Billy  would 
race  out  from  the  line  without  the  loss  of  a  second, 
catch  the  ball  easily,  and  start  down  the  field  with  it. 
But  always  there  was  in  his  mind  a  consciousness  of 
just  who  was  sending  it  to  him.  Always  he  was  on 
the  lookout  for  a  little  slip  in  Coors'  accuracy,  and, 
though  he  might  not  even  realize  it  himself,  though  he 
probably  would  have  denied  the  accusation  indignantly, 
it  was  a  fact  that  he  sometimes  really  hoped  for  a  mis- 
take from  the  half  back,  which  would  call  down  upon 
the  chap  he  disliked  so  greatly  the  wrath  of  the  cap- 
tain. 

Such  playing  may  be  mechanically  perfect,  but  that 
is  all.*  It  is  like  a  machine — without  the  spirit,  the 
breath  of  life.  It  lacks  the  thing  which  makes  men 
lead  a  forlorn  hope,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  knee  against 
knee,  fighting  desperately,  determinedly,  and  together. 

Jim  Phillips  saw  it,  and  he  did  his  best  to  remedy 
the  failing.  Unfortunately,  however,  such  a  failing 


290  Trouble  on  the  Team. 

is  not  an  easy  thing  to  set  right,  because  of  its  very  in- 
definiteness.  One  cannot  put  a  finger  on  any  special 
spot  and  say  that  just  here  lies  the  difficulty.  It  is 
more  general  than  specific,  and  nine  times  out  of  ten 
it  is  unaffected  by  persuasion  or  argument,  impervious 
to  pleading,  and  usually  the  realization  of  how  fatal 
it  is  to  the  progress  and  good  work  of  the  team  comes 
only  after  it  is  too  late. 

Phillips  did  his  best — and  failed.  Then,  realizing 
how  important  the  matter  was,  he  went  to  the  head  of 
the  school  and  outlined  the  situation. 

Merriwell,  who  had  long  ago  seen  how  things  were 
going,  appeared  at  a  meeting  of  the  squad  and  ad- 
dressed them  in  a  simple,  straightforward,  convincing 
manner  which  seemed,  at  the  time,  to  bring  them  to 
their  senses. 

The  effect  was  only  temporary,  however.  Within  a 
few  days  some  occurrence,  slight  and  trivial  in  itself, 
ruffled  the  sensitive  spirits  of  these  youthful  idiots,  and 
set  them  going  again. 

Game  after  game  was  won,  but  often  by  scanty  mar- 
gins. One,  which  had  been  looked  forward  to  as  a 
cinch,  was  lost.  And  all  the  time  the  tussle  of  the 
season,  the  contest  with  Fardale,  loomed  bigger  and 
bigger  on  the  horizon. 


'CHAPTER  XLIV. 

COORS  IS   THROWN   DOWN. 

"That's  the  situation,"  concluded  Jim  Phillips,  in  a 
discouraged  tone.  "You've  probably  seen  it  as  clearly 
as  I  have,  but  it's  a  bit  of  a  relief  to  talk  it  out  this 
way.  If  something  doesn't  happen  between  now  and 
Saturday  to  stir  up  the  fellows  and  make  them  realize 
the  truth,  we'll  lose  the  game  and  with  it  the  champion- 
ship, as  sure  as  I  sit  here." 

To  be  strictly  accurate  he  was  not  sitting  at  all,  but 
squatting  cross-legged  before  the  log  fire  in  the  loung- 
ing room.  His  elbows  rested  on  his  knees,  his  chin 
was  cupped  in  his  tanned,  muscular  hands,  and  on  his 
face  was  a  look  of  real  distress. 

Herman  Coors  moved  uneasily  and  glanced  around 
the  room,  which  was  deserted  save  for  the  two  by  the 
fire. 

"It's  beastly,  Jim,"  he  acknowledged,  his  glance  re- 
turning to  his  friend,  "but  I  don't  see  what  more  you 
can  do.  You've  talked  yourself  about  black  in  the  face 
already,  and  Mr.  Merriwell  has  had  a  whack  at  them 
without  making  any  real  difference.  Are  you  sure  it's 
as  bad  as  you  think?  We've  won  every  game  we've 
played  this  fall,  except  one." 

Phillips  frowned. 

"Yes,  and  how  have  we  won  them?"  he  inquired 
sarcastically.  "Look  at  the  miserable  score  we  made 
against  Wellsburgh  High.  St.  George  scored  against 


292  Coors  is  Thrown  Down. 

us,  which  hasn't  happened  in  four  years.  Peabody, 
Nelson  Prep,  Dean  Military,  Willston-Phillips — every 
one  of  them  pushed  us  hard,  and  we  were  licked  by 
Haddon.  Think  of  that,  Hermie — done  by  a  one-horse 
school  that  hasn't  even  scored  on  Farnham  Hall  in  the 
memory  of  man !" 

"That  was  on  account  of  Con  Phelps,"  Coors  ex- 
postulated, though  not  very  convincingly.  "He's  a 
corking  fellow  and  hammered  out  the  best  team  they 
ever  had." 

Phillips  straightened  up  and  dropped  his  hands  to 
his  knees. 

"Rot!"  he  retorted.  "Is  Phelps  any  better  player 
than  I  am?" 

"Not  so  good." 

"Is  he  any  better  manager?" 

"N-o." 

"Of  course  he  isn't.  That  sounds  as  if  I  had  a 
swelled  head,  but  you  know  I  don't  mean  it  that  way 
at  all.  Phelps  won  because  his  men  got  together,  and 
didn't  have  any  private  grudges,  or  else  they  put  them 
aside  and  forgot  them,  not  because  he  was  a  genius  at 
organizing,  or  anything  like  it." 

They  were  both  wrong,  though  that  made  no  differ- 
ence in  the  principle  of  the  thing.  Conant  Phelps  had 
won  because  he  had  learned  the  Farnham  Hall  signals 
from  a  traitor  who  gave  them  away  when  he  was 
dropped  to  the  scrub  for  incompetence.  Merriwell 
knew  the  details  of  the  affair,  but  there  were  extenuat- 
ing circumstances  which  made  him  keep  that  knowl- 
edge to  himself. 

"I  reckon  you're  right,  Jim,"  Coors  returned  slowly. 


Coors  is  Thrown  Down.  293 

"But  what  can  you  do?  What  can  anybody  do?  I 
don't  think  it'll  be  any  use  to  talk  to  them  again." 

"It's  up  to  you  to  do  the  talking  this  time,"  the  cap- 
tain returned  pointedly. 

"Me?"  gasped  Coors. 

Phillips  fixed  him  intently  with  his  eyes. 

"Exactly,"  he  said  tersely.  "You  and  Billy  Crom- 
well don't  pull  together  for  a  cent,  and  it's  up  to 
you  to  get  busy  and  straighten  out  whatever's  wrong 
between  you." 

Coors'  eyebrows  went  up  in  a  whimsical  way. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Jim,"  he  protested,  "how  can  I  do  that 
when  I  haven't  an  idea  what  it  is  ?" 

"You  don't  know?" 

"No.  I  suppose  it  was  the  way  we  joshed  him  the 
day  he  came,  that  started  him  going,  but  everybody 
else  was  in  that  deal,  and  I  don't  see  why  he's  picked 
me  out  to  be  sour  on." 

Phillips  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Find  out,"  he  said  tersely.    "Ask  him." 

"I  can't  do  that,  Jim,"  Coors  protested,  his  face 
flushing.  "I  can't  go  up  to  the  little  fire  eater  who's 
given  me  the  icy  mitt  from  the  beginning,  and  inquire 
politely  what  there  is  I've  done  that  I  can  go  on  my 
knees  and  apologize  for." 

Phillips'  black  brows  straightened  into  a  single  level 
line  above  his  dark  eyes. 

"It's  for  the  honor  of  the  school,  Hermie,"  he  re- 
minded. "A  fellow  ought  to  be  able  to  do  anything 
for  that." 

Coors  tried  to  force  a  smile,  but  failed  signally. 

"Theoretically — yes,"  he  agreed;  "but,  Jim,  how 


294  Coors  is  Thrown  Down. 

can  I  go  to  any  chap  and  ask  such  a  question?  You 
wouldn't  like  it  yourself." 

Phillips  rose  to  his  feet  and  thrust  both  hands  deep 
into  his  trousers  pockets.  His  eyes  were  narrowed, 
half  closed,  as  he  stared  fixedly  at  his  companion. 

"Like  it !"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  not  the  point.  It's 
not  a  question  of  liking  or  not.  It's  a  question  of 
being  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  earth  by  Fardale,  or 
putting  up  a  good  fight  against  them.  Do  you  think 
it's  been  amusing  or  pleasant  for  me  to  pretty  near  go 
down  on  my  knees  to  those  other  asses  who  can't  get 
rid  of  their  little,  petty  grudges  and  jealousies?  Do 
you  think  it's  been  a  joke  to  roar  out  the  same  lecture 
day  after  day  and  call  down  the  same  fellows  for  the 
same  thing?  Maybe  you  think  I  enjoy  it  and  do  it  just 
for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  my  tongue  wag.  Of  course, 
if  you're  so  sensitive  and  delicate  in  your  feelings  that 
you'd  rather  see  the  school  beaten  than  do  something 
which  is  a  little  unpleasant " 

"Thunder,  Jim!"  Coors  interposed,  his  tanned  face 
aflame.  "That's  enough.  I'll  do  what  you  want,  but 
Heaven  only  knows  whether  anything  will  come  of  it 
or  not." 

"If  it  doesn't,  it  won't  be  your  fault,"  the  captain 
returned,  with  a  tired  smile.  "Get  busy  and  hunt  him 
up  right  away.  We  haven't  a  lot  of  time  to  lose." 

Without  further  words,  Coors  departed  on  the  un- 
pleasant errand.  It  was  raining — a  veritable  Novem- 
ber storm  which  stripped  the  last  few  dead  leaves  from 
the  naked  trees  and  sent  them  swirling  in  little  eddies 
until  they  were  caught  and  held  by  the  sodden  heavi- 
ness of  the  soaking  ground.  Practice  was  impossible, 


Coors  is  Thrown  Down.  295 

and  the  location  of  any  member  of  the  eleven  was  ex- 
tremely problematical. 

Cromwell  might  be  in  any  one  of  a  dozen  rooms, 
striving  to  while  away  the  time  which  passed  on  such 
leaden  wings.  That  he  should  be  alone  in  his  own 
quarters  seemed  the  least  likely  of  any  supposition. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  here  that  Coors  found  him,  after  a 
rapid  but  thorough  search  of  hallways,  library,  and 
gym. 

As  the  Colorado  boy  entered  in  response  to  Crom- 
well's perfunctory  invitation,  Billy  shot  a  glance  of  in- 
credulous surprise  at  him  and  stiffened  slightly. 

"Hello!"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  nonchalance. 
"Sit  down  and  rest  your  face  and  hands." 

Coors  sat,  also  with  an  effort  at  casualness  which 
was  not  altogether  a  success. 

"Rotten  day,"  he  essayed,  to  conceal  his  embarrass- 
ment 

"Beastly,"  agreed  Billy,  wondering  what  under  the 
sun  had  brought  him  there. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  each  refrained 
with  considerable  effort  from  looking  at  the  other. 
Finally  Coors  straightened  up  in  his  chair  and  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"Look  here,  Cromwell,"  he  began  firmly. 

Then  he  paused,  drew  another  long  breath,  and, 
spurred  on  by  the  expression  of  restrained  curiosity 
on  his  host's  face,  continued: 

"You  and  I  don't  seem  to  have  hit  it  off  very  well." 

Cromwell  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Not  exactly,"  he  agreed  shortly. 

"I  suppose " 


296  Coors  is  Thrown  Down. 

Coors  hesitated.  It  was  extremely  hard.  He  had, 
in  fact,  never  disliked  anything  so  much  in  his  life 
before,  but  it  had  to  be  done,  just  the  same. 

"I  suppose,"  he  continued  slowly,  "it  was  on  acj 
count  of — what  happened — the  day — you  came." 

Billy,  puzzled,  suspicious  of  some  trap — he  knew  not 
what — shrugged  his  shoulders  again. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  say  that,"  he  retorted. 

Coors  looked  surprised. 

"Well,  I  thought,"  he  explained  choppily,  "that  you 

— that  you Well,  it  seemed  as  if  you  didn't  like 

the  way  we — er — drew  you  out." 

Cromwell  laughed  in  an  attempt  at  spontaneity. 

"Oh,  that!"  he  exclaimed  carelessly.  "I'd  forgot- 
ten all  about  it  long  ago." 

Coors  looked  puzzled. 

"Then  what "  he  began,  and  trailed  off  into  si- 
lence. 

"Well?"  questioned  Billy. 

The  Colorado  youth  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Then  why  have  you — er — been  so — a — stand- 
offish?" 

Cromwell's  eyes  gleamed.  He  never  supposed  that 
such  a  chance  as  this  would  come  to  him. 

"Have  I,  really?"  he  drawled.  "I  didn't  know  it. 
I  suppose,  though,  a  fellow  can't  like  everybody,  you 
know." 

Coors'  face  hardened. 

"The  little  fool!"  he  thought.  "Does  he  think  I'm 
here  because  I  want  to  be  friends  with  him  ?  He  needs 
a  good  swift  kick,  and  I'd  like  a  lot  to  give  it  to  him." 


Coors  is  Thrown  Down.  297 

Aloud  he  said,  controlling  his  temper  with  an  ef- 
fort: 

"Naturally.  I  was  hoping,  though,  that  since  we 
have  to  do  so  much  teamwork  on  the  field,  that  we 
might  do  it  better  if  we  got  together  and  let — er — by- 
gones be  bygones:" 

Cromwell  bristled. 

"If  you  have  any  criticism  of  my  playing  to  make," 
he  retorted,  in  an  icy  tone,  "why  don't  you  come  out 
with  it  plainly?" 

The  half  back's  face  flamed  crimson,  and  he  stood 
up  abruptly.  Flesh  and  blood  could  stand  no  more. 
If  Phillips  expected  him  to  crawl  in  the  dirt  for  the 
favor  of  this  pig-headed  kid,  he  had  another  guess 
coming. 

"I  should  never  dream  of  that,"  he  said  sarcastically. 
"Your  playing  is  quite  flawless.  I  wish  I  could  say  as 
much  for  your  manners." 

Without  waiting  for  a  response,  he  departed  from 
the  room,  closing  the  door  emphatically  behind  him. 

"Got  him  going!"  exclaimed  Billy  gleefully.  "I 
reckon  he  won't  try  any  more  softsoap  game  with  me. 
Wonder  what  he  did  it  for,  anyhow  ?" 

He  continued  to  wonder,  and,  as  he  thought  over 
the  interview,  his  triumphant  expression  wore  a  bit 
thin. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

ALL    TO     THE     BAD. 

The  great  day,  which  had  been  looked  forward  to 
with  such  varied  feelings,  was  at  length  arrived.  To 
some  the  arrival  of  the  Fardale  eleven  was  a  cause  for 
jubilant  rejoicing,  for  they  had  a  perfect — though 
somewhat  foolishly  optimistic — faith  in  their  own  team 
which  had  been  victorious  in  every  game  but  one  that 
year. 

Others,  who  were  more  thoughtfully  inclined  and 
more  observant,  were  far  from  being  so  confident. 
Like  Jim  Phillips,  they  had  noticed  that  lack  of  cohe- 
sion in  the  team.  They  remembered,  too,  that  some 
of  those  victories  had  been  barely  snatched  from  de- 
feat. To  them  the  triumph  of  Haddon  loomed  up  big 
and  significant.  If  a  little  one-horse  school  like  that 
could  win  against  them,  what  possible  chance  had  they 
with  this  aggregation  of  brawn  and  sinew  from  their 
greatest — really  their  only — rival? 

Moreover,  the  sight  of  the  visiting  team  was  not  re- 
assuring. They  were  big,  rangy  fellows  without  ex- 
ception, and  must  average  a  good  five  pounds  heavier 
than  the  Farnham  Hall  boys.  As  they  descended  from 
the  wagonette,  they  seemed  to  be  on  excellent  terms 
with  each  other.  There  was  much  laughter  and  jok- 
ing, and  arms  frequently  rested  carelessly  on  other 
shoulders.  It  might,  of  course,  be  simply  the  natural 
drawing  together  which  every  crowd  of  boys  shows  in 


All  to  the  Bad.  299 

a  strange  place,  but  many  took  it  as  an  evidence  of 
the  important  quality  which  their  own  team  lacked. 

Upon  Jim  Phillips  the  calmness  of  desperation 
seemed  to  have  descended.  The  night  before  he  had 
gathered  his  men  together  and  given  them  a  last 
serious  talk,  into  which  he  put  every  bit  of  persuasion 
he  possessed.  He  told  them  again,  in  simple,  straight- 
forward terms,  which  spared  no  one,  what  he  had 
spoken  of  so  many  times  before,  and  what  they  must 
do  in  order  to  escape  defeat.  Now,  apparently,  he 
felt  that  he  had  done  his  best.  The  result  rested  with 
Fate. 

Just  before  the  game,  however,  in  the  rough  little 
room  beneath  one  of  the  stands,  which  served  as  a  gen- 
eral gathering  place  and  retreat  during  intermission, 
he  spoke  again,  but  briefly. 

"You're  up  against  a  hard  proposition  to-day,  fel- 
lows," he  said,  in  that  pleasant,  ringing  voice  of  his ; 
"but  you're  going  to  win  out.  You've  got  to !  You're 
fighting  for  the  school,  and  that's  something  much  big- 
ger and  more  worth  while  than  anything  you  could 
fight  for.  I'm  not  going  to  say  another  word  but  this : 
Get  together !  Fight  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  remem- 
ber that  you're  going  to  win  for  Farnham  Hall  in  spite 
of  everything.  That's  all,  except  that  Mr.  Merriwell 
wants  a  word  with  each  of  you." 

They  stood  up  slowly,  perhaps  a  little  nervously,  and 
glanced  toward  the  dpor,  near  which  Merry  leaned 
against  the  wall.  Above  them  came  the  tread  of  many 
feet  as  the  stands  rapidly  filled,  mingled  with  the  loud 
buzz  of  excited  voices. 

Billy  was  conscious  of  a  queer,  choky  feeling  which 


300  All  to  the  Bad. 

had  never  come  to  him  at  any  of  the  other  games,  and 
for  a  second  he  wondered  whether,  by  chance,  Phil- 
lips' continued  harping  on  "get  together"  could  pos- 
sibly have  any  reference  to  him. 

"Pshaw!"  he  muttered  an  instant  later.  "How  can 
it?  I  don't  like  Coors  a  little  bit,  but  that  doesn't  in- 
terfere with  my  playing.  It's  all  nonsense!  All  the 
fellows  on  the  team  can't  very  well  be  bosom  friends." 

Thrusting  the  matter  deliberately  from  his  mind, 
he  tightened  his  belt,  carefully  relaced  one  shoe,  and 
then  straightened  up  to  hear  respectfully  the  few  terse 
words  of  professional  advice  and  warning  which  Mer- 
riwell,  as  coach,  had  to  give  him. 

As  they  trotted  out  into  the  field  a  little  later,  a  com- 
pact, sturdy  body  of  fellows,  an  enthusiastic  cheer  rang 
out  from  the  crowded  stands  which  thrilled  him  and 
made  his  blood  tingle. 

How  could  he  help  doing  his  best  when  all  that  crowd 
iwas  counting  on  him,  as  on  the  ten  others?  Of  course 
they  were  going  to  win — they  had  to ! 

They  won  the  toss  and  chose  the  goal  favored  by  a 
heavy  wind.  The  teams  lined  up,  and  Billy  crouched, 
ready  for  Fardale's  kick-off. 

The  ball  fell  short,  retarded  by  the  gale,  and  was 
caught  neatly  by  Herman  Coors,  who  started  zigzag- 
ging down  the  field.  Billy  raced  after,  conscious  of  a 
feeling  of  envy.  A  moment  later  his  enemy  went 
down  under  the  impact  of  three  Fardale  men,  and  for 
a  time  the  boy  from  Arizona  forgot  everything  but 
the  progress  of  the  game. 

The  second  play  was  a  rush  through  the  line  be- 


All  to  the  Bad.  goi 

tween  end  and  tackle  which  gained  for  them  a  good 
six  yards  and  raised  a  cheer  from  the  spectators. 

The  next  was  not  so  fortunate.  The  compact  Far- 
dale  line  held  steady  and  threw  Ogden  Marshall  back 
without  a  gain.  Then  followed  an  attempt  around  the 
left  end  by  Phillips,  but  some  one  got  through  and 
spoiled  that  play. 

The  signal  for  a  forward  pass  sent  Billy  into  posi- 
tion like  a  flash.  This  time  he  would  do  something 
and  show  those  cocky  visitors  that  there  was  one  man 
on  the  team  who  was  on  his  job.  The  forward  pass 
at  this  stage  of  the  game  was  to  be  sprung  as  a  surprise 
on  Fardale. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  fault  of  the  wind,  perhaps  not. 
rAt  all  events  the  ball  did  not  come  as  cleanly  accurate 
as  usual,  and  Billy  stumbled  and  nearly  lost  his  balance 
in  his  effort  to  get  it.  Nevertheless,  he  whirled  and 
started  down  the  field,  but  that  slight  delay  had  been 
enough  to  get  the  Fardale  boys  in  the  jump,  and  he 
was  brought  to  earth  with  a  thud,  after  a  gain  of 
barely  three  yards. 

Billy  was  furious.  It  had  been  done  on  purpose  to 
put  him  in  bad.  It  was  just  like  Coors  to  do  a  thing 
like  that,  and,  as  he  lined  up  again,  Cromwell  was 
wasting  his  time  growling  at  the  Colorado  chap,  in- 
stead of  being  on  the  jump  for  the  .next  play. 

It  was  a  punt,  of  course,  and  he  prepared  for  it 
mechanically,  still  harboring  his  grievance.  The  wind 
carried  the  ball  far  down  the  field — too  far,  in  fact,  for 
the  ends  to  cover  it.  The  Fardale  back  caught  it  neatly, 
and  came  dodging  through  the  interference  as  if 
through  a  clear  field.  When  at  length  he  was  brought 


302  All  to  the  Bad. 

to  earth  by  Jim  Phillips,  he  had  made  a  vastly  greater 
gain  than  would  ever  have  been  possible  had  his  op- 
ponents been  playing  together. 

The  spectators  were  swift  to  see  this,  and  from  the 
stands  came  a  series  of  protesting  shouts. 

"Wake  up,  Farnham!" 

"Get  together!" 

"Don't  let  'em  carry  it  the  length  of  the  field." 

"Don't  let  'em  through  like  that!" 

"Play  close!" 

Billy  heard  it  with  flushed  cheeks,  thinking  of  the 
contrast  between  this  and  the  enthusiastic  cheering 
which  had  greeted  their  appearance  on  the  field.  They 
must  do  something  to  show  the  boys  that  they  were 
not  as  rotten  as  all  that  Breathlessly  he  crouched  and 
waited  for  the  Fardale  attack. 

In  an  instant  it  came,  a  machinelike  rush  which  car- 
ried their  opponents  off  their  feet  and  swept  them  back 
for  a  gain  of  ten  yards.  Again  it  came,  solid  and  com- 
pact. Again  a  big  gain. 

The  spectators  begged  excitedly  for  their  team  to 
"buck  up  and  hold  'em."  Phillips  pleaded  desperately 
for  them  to  close  in  and  get  together.  But  still  the 
enemy  seemed  to  find  holes  in  the  line  wherever  they 
tried,  and  still  that  advance  continued. 

On  Farnham  Hall's  thirty-yard  line  there  was  a 
fumble,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  ball  went  soaring  down 
the  field  impelled  by  the  accurate  boot  of  George 
Winslow. 

It  was  but  a  momentary  respite,  however.  The 
charging  Fardale  line  came  back  with  it,  and,  in  spite 
of  every  effort  to  stop  them,  had  advanced  into  Farn- 


All  to  the  Bad.  303 

ham  Hall's  territory  when  the  shrill  whistle  announced 
the  ending  of  the  first  quarter. 

Billy  welcomed  it  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  was  not 
so  cocky  as  he  had  been  a  little  while  before.  What 
was  the  matter  with  the  fellows,  anyhow?  Why 
didn't  they  stand  up  and  play  the  game  as  it  should 
be  played? 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  to  blame,  as 
well  as  the  others.  He  listened  to  the  few  biting  words 
which  Phillips  uttered,  and  the  calmer,  but  no  less  em- 
phatic, voice  of  Merriwell  saying  practically  the  same 
thing.  Then,  before  he  knew  it,  he  was  back  in  the 
field  again,  bracing  himself  for  another  of  those  stren- 
uous charges. 

In  the  first  five  minutes,  through  another  fumble, 
Phillips  secured  the  ball  and  went  twisting  down  the 
field,  dodging,  thrusting  aside  interference,  helped  a 
little  at  first  by  the  blocking  of  Coors,  who  alone 
seemed  to  have  sensed  the  situation,  and  made  a  touch- 
down. 

TA.  frenzied  roar  went  up  from  the  side  lines,  which 
continued  long  and  loud  until  the  goal  was  kicked.  At 
last  luck  seemed  to  have  turned  and  fortune  was  begin- 
ning to  smile. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 
BILLY'S  EYES  ARE  OPENED. 

The  optimism  of  the  crowd  was  of  short  duration. 
With  the  change  of  goal,  Fardale  was  favored  by  the 
wind,  and  began  at  once  their  systematic  advance  down 
the  field. 

This  time,  however,  it  was  vastly  quicker  than  be- 
fore. Down  after  down  netted  them  six,  eight,  and  ten 
yards.  They  seemed  to  sweep  aside  the  interference 
as  lightly  and  easily  as  if  it  had  been  chaff.  The  fel- 
lows on  the  home  team  strove  desperately  to  keep  them 
back.  Each  man  gave  the  best  that  was  in  him,  but 
he  played  alone.  Inerc  was  no  effort  to  help  one  an- 
other as  there  should  have  been,  and  the  result  was 
such  that,  in  a  phenomenally  brief  time,  the  enemy 
broke  through  the  right  end  and  swept  over  the  re- 
maining few  yards  for  a  touchdown. 

They  missed  the  goal,  which  was  the  only  consoling 
feature  of  the  day,  and  three  minutes  later  the  time 
for  the  second  quarter  was  up. 

His  face  white  with  anger  and  set  in  bitter,  scornful 
lines,  Jim  Phillips  led  his  men  into  the  room  beneath 
the  grand  stand  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  there  silent,  his  eyes  ranging  over 
the  circle,  a  look  in  them  which  set  lids  to  fluttering 
and  feet  to  shuffling  nervously. 

"I  hope  you  are  proud  of  yourselves,"  he  said  scath- 
ingly at  length.  "I  hope  you're  satisfied  with  the  beau- 


Billy's  Eyes  Are  Opened.  305 

tiful  exhibition  you've  made!  By 'heavens!  I  never 
saw  such  a  bunch  of  cowards  in  my  life.  That's  what 
you  are — cowards — quitters!  There's  not  one  of  you 
who  proved  himself  a  real  man.  You  play  a  mile 
apart,  and  there're  holes  as  big  as  a  house  in  the  line. 
If  you  keep  this  up  there'll  be  a  score  piled  up  against 
us  such  as  was  never  known  at  Farnhatn  before.  A 
bunch  of  yellow  quitters  you  are,  and  nothing  else !" 

"Oh,  say,  Jim!"  expostulated  Marshall,  his  face 
crimson.  "It  isn't  as  bad  as  that." 

Phillips  whirled  on  him,  his  eyes  flashing. 

"Isn't  it,  though?"  he  demanded.  "It's  up  to  you 
to  show  me,  then.  It's  up  to  you  to  go  out  there  and 
put  up  a  decent  fight,  and  prove  to  the  school  that 
there's  something  in  you.  It's  up  to  you  to  get  together 
and  forget  everything  but  the  fact  that  you've  got  to 
hold  them  off.  You  may  not  win  the  game,  but  for 
Heaven's  sake  don't  give  it  away!  Fight  to  the  last 
ditch,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  if  they  make  another 
touchdown,  make  'em  do  it  foot  by  foot,  not  ten  yards 
and  more  at  a  time." 

Shamefaced,  the  team  presently  filed  out  of  the 
room  again  and  to  the  field.  Billy,  resentful  as  he 
had  been  at  first  at  those  bitter,  stinging  words,  felt 
growing  within  him  a  fierce  determination  never  to- 
give  his  captain  a  chance  to  say  such  things  again.  He 
would  forget  everything  but  the  necessity  for  keeping 
together.  He  would  play  the  game  as  he  had  never 
played  It  before,  and  it  would  not  be  his  fault  if  defeat 
was  their  portion. 

As  they  were  lining  up,  he  glanced  backward  and 
caught  the  eyes  of  Herman  Coors  fixed  upon  him. 


306  Billy's  Eyes  Are  Opened. 

Swiftly  he  crouched,  wondering  if  he  could  ever  bring 
himself  to  fight  side  by  side  with  him. 

That  third  quarter  showed  but  little  improvement  on 
the  other  two.  Without  the  advantage  of  the  wind, 
Farnham  Hall  would  surely  have  been  defeated  then 
and  there.  The  boys  tried  in  a  measure  to  brace  up 
and  play  close,  but  they  had  lost  the  knack  of  giving 
one  another  a  helping  hand,  and  in  each  fellow's  mind 
was  an  embarrassed,  awkward  feeling  at  being  the  first 
to  give  way. 

Back  and  forth  the  battle  waged.  When  Fardale 
had  the  ball,  she  rushed  it  down  the  field  with  a  united, 
machinelike  regularity  which  was  beautiful  to  see,  in 
vivid  contrast  to  the  weaker,  more  or  less  futile,  attack 
of  her  rival. 

Time  and  time  again  the  Farnham  Hall  line  was 
driven  almost  to  its  very  goal  line,  where,  roused  by 
their  danger,  by  the  stinging  words  of  Phillips  or 
Shasta,  or  the  desperate  entreaties  of  the  spectators, 
they  stiffened  momentarily  and  somehow  managed  to 
fling  back  their  opponents  to  a  safer  distance. 

It  was  a  losing  game,  however,  and  the  spirits  of  the 
watchers,  who  followed  the  line  of  scrimmage  with 
tense,  drawn  faces,  sank  lower  and  lower.  Would 
they  never  brace  up  and  fight  like  men?  Were  they 
going  to  let  themselves  be  pushed  over  the  line  for  an- 
other goal,  and  perhaps  another  still?  The  cheers 
grew  half-hearted,  perfunctory — the  cheering  of  a 
crowd  of  fellows  who  have  lost  their  faith  and  yell 
only  from  a  sense  of  duty.  There  is  no  sound  more 
evident  or  more  discouraging. 

Somehow  Billy  remembered  the  next  interminable 


Billy's  Eyes  Are  Opened.  307 

quarter  but  vaguely.  He  was  doing  his  best  for  the 
school,  fighting  against  hope,  in  the  face  of  despair. 
His  brain  was  clear,  and  he  never  lost  an  opportunity 
to  get  into  a  play.  But  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  every 
attack  was  directed  against  his  end.  He  wondered 
why  they  kept  hammering  him,  and  whether  it  was 
done  by  intention.  His  breath  began  to  come  in  pant- 
ing gasps,  and  his  legs  grew  weary,  but  he  never 
thought  of  giving  in. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  voice  in  his  ear,  and  felt  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Good  boy,  Billy !  That  was  a  corker !  We'll  get 
into  the  next  one  together." 

It  was  Coors,  and  Billy  felt  a  curious  thrill  go 
through  him  at  the  friendly  touch  of  his  enemy's  hand. 
A  moment  later  they  were  plunging  through  the  line, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  for  a  good,  substantial  gain. 

Something  of  the  same  thing  must  have  happened 
with  the  others,  for,  little  by  little,  the  line  closed  in, 
and  fellows  who  had  disliked  each  other  forgot  their 
differences  and  petty  quarrels.  Side  by  side  they 
fought,  helping  each  other  when  they  could,  urging 
one  another  to  greater  endeavor  in  friendly  voices 
which  were,  in  themselves,  a  goad. 

The  effect  was  apparent  in  bigger  gains,  in  better 
teamword — in  everything. 

Fighting  like  a  demon,  Billy  was  borne  into  the 
midst  of  almost  every  scrimmage.  Once  everything 
went  black  before  him  for  a  minute,  and  when  he  re- 
covered his  senses  he  found  that  it  was  Coors  who  had 
dragged  him  out  of  the  mass  and  was  holding  him  on 
his  feet. 


308  Billy's  Eyes  Are  Opened. 

As  he  felt  the  friendly  support  of  that  muscular  arm 
and  saw  the  expression  on  the  face  of  the  fellow  he 
had  hated,  something  vanished  from  Billy's  make-up 
and  never  returned. 

Fellows  who  had  fought  together  as  they  had,  mak- 
ing a  desperate  struggle  against  overwhelming  odds, 
could  never  be  enemies. 

Two  minutes  later  the  shrill  call  of  time  told  that 
battered,  exhausted  line  that  they  had  won  out.  At 
the  eleventh  hour  they  had  cast  aside  all  rancor  and 
ill  feeling,  to  charge  the  enemy  shoulder  to  shoulder,  a 
single  unit  instead  of  a  disorganized  mass. 


Tired,  sore  in  every  muscle,  but  blissfully  happy, 
Billy  Cromwell  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  stone-flagged 
terrace  and  watched  the  sparks  eddy  upward  from  the 
triumphal  bonfire  out  in  the  open. 

Beside  him  was  Herman  Coors,  leaning  against  the 
brick  wall  of  the  building,  and  their  shoulders  touched 
as  they  had  touched  on  the  memorable  field  that  after- 
noon. 

They  had  fought  it  all  over  again,  dwelling  little  on 
the  "might-have  beens,"  content  with  realities,  and  now 
they  were  silent. 

Billy  was  thinking  what  a  fool  he  had  been  to  hold 
a  grudge  against  this  fellow  who  was  such  a  bully 
sort,  and  wondering  why  he  could  have  been  blind  so 
long. 

All  at  once,  out  of  the  medley  of  talk  and  laughter 
which  rose  from  the  crowd  about  him,  he  heard  a 
single  sentence: 


Billy's  Eyes  Are  Opened.  309 

"Broncho  certainly  put  up  a  corking  game.  It  was 
sure  enough  lucky  Hermie  spoke  up  for  him  that  day 
and  got  Marshall  to  keep  him  on  the  team." 

Billy's  heart  leaped,  and  a  rush  of  crimson  stained 
his  face.  For  a  moment  he  sat  perfectly  still.  Then 
he  turned  slowly  to  his  companion. 

"You — heard — that?"  he  asked,  in  a  low,  uneven 
voice. 

Coors  nodded,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  flaming  fire 
beyond. 

"But  why "  stammered  Billy. 

Coors  laughed  a  little. 

"I  had  a  hunch  you'd  make  good,"  he  returned 
carelessly. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  which  was  presently  broken 
by  the  Arizona  chap. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  did  it  when  I  was  such  a  rot- 
ten dub,"  he  ventured. 

Coors  laughed  again,  and  glanced  quickly  at  his 
companion. 

"I  reckon  I  must  have  taken  sort  of  a  shine  to  you, 
kid,"  he  chuckled.  "Maybe  it  was  because  I  was 
just  like  that  myself  when  I  first  came  East." 

THE   END. 


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BOB  STEELE'S  WINNING  RACE 
BOB  STEELE'S  NEW  AEROPLANE 
BOB  STEELE'S  LAST  FLIGHT 
Illustrated,  cloth  binding,  5O  cents  per  volume 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price 
by  the  publisher 

DAVID  McKAY,  Philadelphia 

(2) 


BOYS  OF  LIBERTY  LIBRARY 

NEW  SERIES  of  splendid  tales  of  the  wonderful  and 
stirring  adventures  of  boys  who  fought  in  The  Revolu- 
tionary War,  The  French  and  Indian  Wars,  and  Naval 
Battles  of  1812. 
The  stories  are  written  in  an  intensely  interesting  style,  and  no 

boy  can  read  them  without  being  aroused  to  the  highest  pitch  of 

patriotic  enthusiasm. 

We  give  herewith  a  list  of  titles  now  ready.     Read  the  first  and 

you  will  want  to  read  all  the  others.     I2mo.     Cloth,  handsomely 

bound. 

PAUL  REVERE.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

THE  FIRST  SHOT  FOR  LIBERTY.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

FOOLING  THE  ENEMY.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

INTO  THE  JAWS  OF  DEATH.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

THE  HERO  OF  TICONDEROGA.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

ON  TO  QUEBEC.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

FIGHTING  HAL.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

MARION  AND  HIS  MEN.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

THE  YOUNG  AMBASSADOR.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

THE  YOUNG  GUARDSMAN.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  LIVELY  BEE.    By  John  De  Morgan. 

THE  TORY  PLOT.    By  T.  C.  Harbaugh. 

IN  BUFF  AND  BLUE.    By  T.  C.  Harbaugh. 

WASHINGTON'S  YOUNG  SPY.    By  T.  C.  Harbaugh. 

UNDER  GREENE'S  BANNER.     By  T.  C.  Harbaugh. 

FOR  FREEDOM'S  CAUSE.     By  T.  C.  Harbaugh. 

CAPTAIN  OF  THE  MINUTE  MEN.    By  Harrie  Irving  Hancock. 

THE  QUAKER  SPY.    By  Lieut.  Lounsberry. 

FIGHTING  FOR  FREEDOM.    By  Lieut.  Lounsberry. 

BY  ORDER  OF  THE  COLONEL.    By  Lieut.  Lounsberry. 

A  CALL  TO  DUTY.    By  Lieut.  Lounsberry. 

IN  GLORY'S  VAN.    By  Lieut.  Lounsberry. 

THE  TRADER'S  CAPTIVE.    By  Lieut.  Lounaberry. 

THE  YOUNG  PATRIOT.    By  Lieut.  Lounsberry. 

"OLD  PUT"  THE  PATRIOT.    By  Frederick  A.  Ob«r. 

THE  LEAGUE  OF  FIVE.    By  Commander  Post. 

THE  KING'S  MESSENGER.    By  Capt.  Frank  Ralph. 

DASHING  PAUL  JONES.    By  Frank  Sheridan. 

FROM  MIDSHIPMAN  TO  COMMODORE.    By  Frank  Sheridan. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  ESSEX.    By  Frank  Sheridan. 

LAND  HERO  OF  i8n.    By  C.  C.  Hotchkisa. 

FOLLOWING  MAD  ANTHONY.    By  T.  C.  Harbaugh. 

THE  YOUNG  CAPTAINS.    By  T.  C.  Harbaugh. 

CAMPAIGNING  WITH  BRADDOCK.    By  William  Murray  Graydon.  | 

Price,  5O  cents  per  volume 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price 
by  the  publisher 

DAVID  McKAY,  Philadelphia 

(3) 


THE  ROB  RANGER  SERIES 

By  LIEUT.  LIONEL  LOUNSBERRY 

A  capital  series  showing  what  can  be  accomplished  by  a  boy  of  ability  and  courage 
Rob  is  a  hero  whose  example  of  courage,  honesty  and  manliness  can  be  followed  with 
profit.  Rob's  horse,  Silent  Sam,  and  his  dog  Trumps,  play  an  important  part  in  the 
series,  and  cannot  fail  to  win  admiration  and  affection.  No  better  stories  for  bright 
healthy  boys  could  well  be  imagined. 

ROB   RANGER'S   MINE,  or  THE  BOY  WHO   GOT  THERE.     By  Lieut. 

Lionel  Lounsberry. 
ROB  RANGER   THE  YOUNG   RANCHMAN,  or  GOING  IT  ALONE   AT 

LOST  RIVER.    By  Lieut.  Lionel  Lounsberry. 
ROB  RANGER'S  COWBOY  DAYS,  or  THE  YOUNG  HUNTER  OF  THB 

BIG  HORN.     By  Lieut.  Lionel  Lounsberry. 

Price,  5O  cents  per  volume 

THE  CIRCUS  SERIES 

STANLEY  NORRJS         BY       VICTOR  ST.  CLAIR 

Where  is  there  a  boy  who  does  not  love  a  circus  and  who  does  not  also  love  to  take 
a  peep  "  behind  the  scenes  "  of  the  great  white  canvas  ?  There  are  adventures  galore, 
enough  to  satisfy  any  healthy  youngster. 

PHIL   THE    SHOWMAN,    or    LIFE    IN    THE    SAWDUST    RING.     By 

Stanley  Norris. 
YOUNG  SHOWMAN'S  RIVALS,  or  UPS  AND  DOWNS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

By  Stanley  Norris. 
YOUNG   SHOWMAN'S    PLUCK,   or   AN   UNKNOWN    RIDER   IN   THE 

RING.    By  Stanley  Norris. 
YOUNG  SHOWMAN'S  TRIUMPH,  or  A  GRAND  TOUR  ON  THE  ROAD. 

By  Stanley  Norris. 
ZIG-ZAG,  THE  BOY  CONJURER,  or  LIFE  ON  AND  OFF  THE  STAGE. 

By  Victor  St.  Clair. 
ZIP,  THE  ACROBAT,  or  THE  OLD  SHOWMAN'S  SECRET.    By  Victor 

Price,  5O  cents  per  volume 

THE  MATTHEW  WHITE  SERIES 

These  books  are  full  of  good,  clean  adventure,  thrilling  enough  to  please  the  full- 
blooded  wide-awake  boy,  yet  containing  nothing  to  which  there  can  be  any  objection 
from  those  who  are  careful  as  to  the  kind  of  books  they  put  into  the  hands  of  the  young. 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  YOUNG  ATHLETE.— A  story  of  how  a  boy  saved  his 

father's  name  and  fortune. 

ERIC  DANE. — Interesting  experiences  of  a  boy  of  means. 
GUY  H  AMMERSLEY.— How  an  energetic  boy  cleared  bis  name. 
MY  MYSTERIOUS  FORTUNE.-An  extremely  interesting  story  of  a  $300,000 

check. 
THE  TOUR  OF  A  PRIVATE  CAR.— Interesting  experiences  of  a  young  private 

secretary. 
THE  YOUNG  EDITOR.— Experiences  of  a  brifiht  boy  editing  a  weekly  paper. 

Price,  5O  cents  per  volume 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  publisher 

DAVID  McKAY,  Philadelphia 

(4) 


The  Famous  Adventure  Series 

An  ideal  series  of  books  for  boys  of  all  ages.  The  stories 
are  of  the  bright  and  sparkling  kind,  full  of  adventures  on 
land  and  sea  and  not  over-burdened  with  lengthy  descriptions  ; 
in  fact,  just  the  sort  that  must  appeal  to  every  healthy  boy 
who  is  fond  of  thrilling  exploits  and  deeds  of  heroism. 

The  names  of  the  authors  give  sufficient  guarantee  to  their 
merits.  Among  these  may  be  mentioned  Henry  Harrison 
Lewis,  who  is  a  graduate  of  the  Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis, 
and  has  written  a  great  many  books  for  boys. 

A  VOYAGE  TO  THE  GOLD  COAST.    By  Fr*nk 
H.  Converse. 

An  adventurous  trip  of  New  England  boys  to  Africa. 

CAMP  IN  THE  SNOW.    By  Wm.  Murray  Graydon. 

Boys'  winter  camp  life  in  northern  New  England. 

CENTREBOARD  JIM.     By  Henry  Harrison  Lewi*. 

The  secret  of  Sargasso  Sea. 

FROM  LAKE  TO  WILDERNESS.    By  Wm.  Murray 
Graydon. 

Adventures  around  the  northern  lakes. 

HOW  HE  WON.     By  Brooks  McCormick. 

Triumphs  of  a  plucky  boy  afloat  and  ashore. 

IN   SEARCH    OF   AN    UNKNOWN   RACE.     By 
Frank  H.  Converse. 

A  thrilling  story  of  exploration  in  Brazil. 

KING  OF  THE  ISLAND.    By  Henry  Harmon  Lewis. 

Strange  adventures  on  a  South  Sea  Island. 

TOM  HAVEN  WITH  THE  WHITE  SQUADRON. 
By  Lieut.  James  K.  Orton. 

The  adventures  of  a  young  inventor  of  a  submarine  boat. 


Illustrated,  cloth  binding,  5O  cents  per  volume 

by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  recei 
lisher 

DAVID  McKAY,  Philadelphia 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price 
by  the  publisher 


THE  ANNAPOLIS  SERIES 

By  ENSIGN  CLARKE  FITCH,  U.  S.  N. 

A  graduate  of  the  U.  S.  Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis,  and 
thoroughly  familiar  with  all  naval  matters  Mr.  Fitch  has 
devoted  himself  to  literature,  and  has  written  a  series  of 
books  for  boys  that  every  young  American  should  read.  His 
stories  are  full  of  interesting  information  about  the  navy, 
training  ships,  etc. 

BOUND  FOR  ANNAPOLIS,  or  The  Trials  of  a  Sailor  Boy. 
CLIP,  THE  NAVAL  CADET,  or  Exciting  Days  at  Annapolis. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  TRAINING  SHIP,  or  Clif  Faraday's 
Pluck. 

FROM  PORT  TO  PORT,  or  Clif  Faraday  in  Many  Waters. 
A  STRANGE  CRUISE,  or  Clif  Faraday's  Yacht  Chase. 

Illustrated,  cloth  binding-,  75  cents  per  volume 

THE  WEST  POINT  SERIES 

By  LIEUT.  FREDERICK  GARRISON,  U.  S.  A. 

Every  American  boy  takes  a  keen  interest  in  the  affairs  of 
West  Point.  No  more  capable  writer  on  this  popular  subject 
could  be  found  than  Lieut.  Garrison,  who  vividly  describes 
the  life,  adventures  and  unique  incidents  that  have  occurred 
in  that  great  institution — in  these  famous  West  Point  stories. 

OFF  FOR  WEST  POINT,  or  Mark  Mallory's  Struggle. 
A  CADET'S  HONOR,  or  Mark  Mallory's  Heroism. 
ON  GUARD,  or  Mark  Mallory's  Celebration. 

THE  WEST  POINT  TREASURE,  or  Mark  Mallory's  Strange 
Find. 

THE  WEST  POINT  RIVALS,  or  Mark  Mallory's  Strategem. 
Illustrated,  cloth  binding,  75  cents  per  volume 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price 
by  the  publisher 

DAVID  McKAY,  Philadelphia 

(6) 


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